Sunny Sheets
I never write about morning
Always about night
Of paintbrush streets and lights that look like stars if you squint your eyes.
To hold a morning in my hands
All Entries
Counting Clouds
I want to be a waterfall
Rushing fearlessly to the edge
And floating downwards
Back to my river
Genuine Leather
She talks about you like you could lasso the sun
And keep it cerulean-center all summer long
With shiny tin campers dotting the highway
Just like the lilt of your very own song.
The Art of Throwing Spaghetti
You throw so much spaghetti at the wall, you could open a restaurant above the window
And you did.
You ran a red because it was something new
And puffed “We’ll figure it out” through a cigarette
Thirsty
I miss bleeding out all over a page
The sparkle of the ink
Like a beetle’s backside
Or the soft silk from a mink
My thoughts were tied to my hands
Lucid
I woke up with the smell of you in my head
My knee still frosty from the unthawed Earth
I woke up shivering warm
Wrapped up in lovesick red
I laid in bed, puzzling over You
Tapestry
Everything happens for a reason and that’s what’s so funny.
Your gift to me was the extinguisher before you set my house on fire
You gave me the lifeboat before you crashed our ship
You bought me a spare before slashing my tires.
And now I’m not sure if this makes you a hero.
Growing Pain
I think of piles of abandoned clothes at the laundromat
or a scab that won’t heal because it keeps getting picked off
when I think of what she’s going through.
And I relate too. I’ve walked that path.
Youth
Weave while the yarn is wet
before the red turns black and crusted like my grandfather’s truck
before the fibers stiffen and hold your work in it’s place
(regardless of completion)