Her plastic pet aphid caused an uproar, the gender creaking the house, a poster swallowing well i think its going to be a long long time
going to ikea for a creepy little kitchenaid mixer when wanting wet cypress green wall to hang dried flowers from, like nature's graveyard and or the meaning of keeping
if he were a mouse in danger living in a toolbox I probably wouldn't want to set free by a creek for some desire of needing
something to sleep under my screwdriver hammer and nail, for fear of fixing, for want of purring captive.
the sun makes me wet finger and weaving khaki, as the bus huffs
I'm going to sound hard harsh
combative,
all crazy eyed with thumbs on my temples
but
sometimes simple doesn't get it across,
you see?
where to go where to go where to go
When it starts, there's the obvious almost sitcom way about events, and how they occur all funny back to back.
When it starts, there's the obvious almost sitcom way about events, and how they occur all funny back to back.
We're having a soda day, where coffee doesn't even come close
to what is needed to corrode an achey breaky start.
A day that is full of baby bees in February, I ask-
"where do you come from?"
I say something else, sipping water from the table, somehow i think it's been ignored.
These ideas are spinning, I'm going to write an essay about my week in Winona
though I've never been. I'm creating a stained glass lie to cast some color in the lines.
In Winona, that week in winter, I drove my shotty little car to the lake. It was cold, but who cared at this point? A song came on that I hadn't heard for years. Probably four years, actually, but it came to answer all my questions. What was I doing in Winona? What happens here that doesn't happen somewhere else? I guess negative degrees Fahrenheit, but who cared at this point? I wasn't really in Winona, and that doesn't ruin the story because there is no story.
Smell,porchlight cilantro
Indigo begonia Neptune spathe
Clean of bathed wrists and bed frame
Imagine fake flower
rocks from most recent sidewalk upheaval
a candy lamp, spits rainbows
to screech of breaks.
enter a smack slap jack game
for four feasts, an appletini
colored trunk and the assistant
underneath.
the burden of barrels slip
on the backs of those with places to hide
with bumbling stings to hide from,
the brilly wind woke me up with some tub thump,
reminding me of the splinter in my thumb,
we have dandelion war paint and we want ice cream or a watering hole.
we want sometimes what we cannot have, and we'd bet all or nothing for it.
forever a list of regrets, this life - this time right now
i'm not sure how to build from here,
i kind of forgot how long it takes.
Her pictures are just gorgeous, the glass is half full of mint green,
the last time I looked in this mirror, I was thirteen.
I held the softest puppy in my arms and didn't know what it was like
to listen to this music on this stretch of road
Springy march has come with such ease, I write by the side of the road
or when I'm stuck behind the ten p.m. train in Lyndon, in limbo with head pulled back
and craning to keep eyes forward,
that's seriously the fault.
Why is it, that in my mind (that is slightly battling the too-depressed-to-get-out-of-bed-blues), I'd rather make it as a poet than be a biologist. I have to write cover letters, I have to work on my resume for these "dream jobs" that may soon slip between my fingers but all I think about is how I should ferociously edit and cram espresso in my face and promote this -- this! These things I write when I'm just pushing time's buttons or waiting for the water in the shower to get hot enough.
who will make me tea when you're gone
who will make me tea when you are gone
In Winona, that week in winter, I drove my shotty little car to the lake. It was cold, but who cared at this point? A song came on that I hadn't heard for years. Probably four years, actually, but it came to answer all my questions. What was I doing in Winona? What happens here that doesn't happen somewhere else? I guess negative degrees Fahrenheit, but who cared at this point? I wasn't really in Winona, and that doesn't ruin the story because there is no story.
Smell,porchlight cilantro
Indigo begonia Neptune spathe
Clean of bathed wrists and bed frame
Imagine fake flower
rocks from most recent sidewalk upheaval
a candy lamp, spits rainbows
to screech of breaks.
enter a smack slap jack game
for four feasts, an appletini
colored trunk and the assistant
underneath.
the burden of barrels slip
on the backs of those with places to hide
with bumbling stings to hide from,
the brilly wind woke me up with some tub thump,
reminding me of the splinter in my thumb,
we have dandelion war paint and we want ice cream or a watering hole.
we want sometimes what we cannot have, and we'd bet all or nothing for it.
forever a list of regrets, this life - this time right now
i'm not sure how to build from here,
i kind of forgot how long it takes.
Her pictures are just gorgeous, the glass is half full of mint green,
the last time I looked in this mirror, I was thirteen.
I held the softest puppy in my arms and didn't know what it was like
to listen to this music on this stretch of road
Springy march has come with such ease, I write by the side of the road
or when I'm stuck behind the ten p.m. train in Lyndon, in limbo with head pulled back
and craning to keep eyes forward,
that's seriously the fault.
Why is it, that in my mind (that is slightly battling the too-depressed-to-get-out-of-bed-blues), I'd rather make it as a poet than be a biologist. I have to write cover letters, I have to work on my resume for these "dream jobs" that may soon slip between my fingers but all I think about is how I should ferociously edit and cram espresso in my face and promote this -- this! These things I write when I'm just pushing time's buttons or waiting for the water in the shower to get hot enough.
who will make me tea when you're gone
who will make me tea when you are gone
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