New Stuff

So, now that I am all done my masters. Im trying to keep up a writing habit. I hope to take my poetry more narrative and eventually venture into other genres. Here are some of the newer poems that probably need some revising.

Dear Mom,

I’m questioning the meaning behind the X
someone spray-painted to a door; neon pink contrasting
gray stone under a window boarded up by cedar planks.
My neighbor is stepping out to remove garbage, pressing down
the black bags not separated by papers and plastics. Her voice
annoys me as does her cut-off red shorts and clashing yellow and teal flip-flops.
Her conversation resonates between my apartment
and the three stories between her and her lover leaning
over the one-seater balcony of dying flowers.
Unfortunately, the X was not tattooed to her home.
That may give me hope they would be moving out in a few days.

There are a lot of cars that line this street
something I’ve never paid attention to until now. I wonder why cars don’t seem more like space ships when subways and cabs are my only transportation. I don’t even know if I would remember how to push a petal or to stay at 10 and 2.
Sometimes I feel my life is out of control in this city. Like I am sitting in the back seat of some deranged cabbie. The street fair makes its way past my window when I’m trying to write or sleep or … I wish you could see how lovely this day is.
How Dad would surely feel different about living back East. I can almost smell the onion grass like our backyard in Pennsylvania, or hear far off kids playing soccer on Mackles field. I wish you could be here to see how far I’ve come in my independence and how horrible fashion can be. A slight breeze bumps my skin and the neighbor has just bent over. I am going back inside. Max says hello, he is getting bigger but still bites. I miss you.

Love. Me.

Idea for an Ending


Paper in the break,
A wall with smashed berry juice.

My father is in prison
Listening to his dark voice like advertisement speech
On a soapbox with no audience.

My thumb is remembering
the story out of some wind
around corners of open rooms.

Oh the foolish smells of childhood,
Like this wall where fruit was first smashed.
It’s as if I’m threading wounds into chemical regret.

When presented with the ice king
Feelings gush over me like hammer and needles,
Blood and screwing.

I begin to drive my fork into these things
Electric heat, a taste of goats milk.

Nitrogen leaks into a chest
by some imposing hand, a mess left to clean.
Accident Town

1.

In this town,
we eat birds
are mirth
in our beds
before we are frozen hearts
shiver at each others presence.

2.

Tradition comes in low hills
lit up by lamps;
a slippery brightness.

3.

December falls
unexpectedly useful,
while I keep solemnity
am a little piqued
by voids in narrative.

4.

Now and then,

The garbage cans
satiate for another chicken wing
or another buzzard.

Cowboys self-flagellate
and dance in honor of a few honkies
while children play chess
behind a parking lot
and another relationship goes sour.


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