be gone
singy
same songiness

there is life for words
once they've crawled outside of crates

there is rhythm
where rhyme has ceased

and meaning
when
phrases breathe
from out of iron bars

blanket of snow
love from up above

unwind yourself

               unfold

and dare to float
unhinged
like e.e.

in his majesty

bursting            out
of
the cliche
 

sweet purging

there was that time
where, detangled she spun on
cold linoleum,

clammy hair
dripping
down porcelain,

an effort to disgorge
the cancer of you
from her ailing ribs.

her father, in the door frame,
blurred through tears and helpless there,

           his heavy shield, found weak
           against this
           glass explosion
                     within her,
           the fragments rupturing her skin,

whispering shoulder promises
that he knew she could not hear.

you are not to blame, child,
for your love of the poisoned cup,
or the inferno in her gut.

Later in dreams she would find
that she needed you
        
to drown
her

Foolish
wont for love.

where you are not king

she will sing.

You might,
With your strong arm
smash a lesser embryo

but not she.

she.
will.
sing. in your face
like a scream,
defying all the worlds
you hold in your hand

and when you press down slow
And she is aching,
her beautiful rage
will only grow
into flames
you
Can't squelch
with
Your waterless ego
or your calcium
critique

her bones flex
beneath your forceful palm-
your insignificant
Attempt at
her ruin.

Sure, she might cry once
but her heart is dry of you.

and the desert
creates a song of lace
that binds around
your
Haughty
head

simple

I would rather have

art pencils
than diamonds

worn photos
than new leather

paper scraps
than shiny shoes

coffee stains
& You

 

this Saturday

I am 30.
And I just jumped a car, myself, for the first time.
So proud
I told my hairdresser,
who waits to blow dry
so we can keep chatting.

afterward,
lost in magazines,
my heart alive
with inspiration
i forget about
16 shelves
of toys
and orange bowls
to remember
something with substance

Art.
and Me.

beauty
&
meaning

I am 30.
and so
Glad to still be growing.
so glad that I am glowing
          within

imperishable

you are

the unwanted
ephemera

the un-erasable
un-trashable
day
that I can't throw away

      it never fades,

the ticket for a ballet
wished unseen
the postcard
to a place,
                 obscene

won't you please
resist
from
tucking yourself
in the bed
of my
       
Memory
 

dream everywhere.