June 2012
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May 2012
50 posts
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Mix
You need one for every finger
you’ve got. No more. No less.
The 1st has to reel her in.
Catch her off guard. Make her
bloom in the wintertime or
persevere like those flowers
that grow in the cracks of sidewalks.
It should make her jump on her mattress
and put its metal springs to the test.
You need to cater to her, but also yourself.
You need to spark old memories and create
new ones....
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Terra Incognita
We drew a circle in a square,
it fit alright, but left us
with empty corners
and broken compasses.
I told you that I didn’t love you
(even though you didn’t ask)
and it stupidly started to rain,
the drops hitting my cheeks
with tears I knew
I wouldn’t cry. I waited through
7 ½ Mississippi’s as I stared
at the watch tower:
its clock has stopped at 11:34
for nearly a month now, as if it wanted
to...
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Dahlia Lane
It was the summer when we knew better
than to wish on dandelions, when you found
temporary permanence in ink that couldn’t
wash off, your forearm forever holding
testimony to your certain uncertainty.
We ate pears, bruised parts and all,
the sticky sweet mush acted as a lion
tamer, fighting off stomach growls
and lethargic energy with a beat-up chair.
Man-made nature surrounded us:...
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Slumbers
When you fall asleep in the late afternoon
and the curtains are parted slightly,
and the sun hits you a little bit,
but in a good way, soft and
intentional, and you are
content
at first, you are used
to yourself, and sleepy days,
but you are missing something,
you know it, you feel the presence
of its lack: no one in the flowers of your
sheets, no one in the warmth of your limbs.
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Mágoa
She only refers to you in the past tense, as you
died some time ago, leaving behind locks but no keys.
The eggshell yellow wallpaper started to curl,
and the flowers on it were wilting from age,
curving involuntarily, turning brown from abandon.
Mágoa found a home in her unoccupied smiles and restless fingers,
And when she wasn’t sanding this or that down, her fingers
dusted off paperback books...
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“The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts...”
– Charles Bukowski
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