Goals...are good.

goals are good.
goals should be made.
and one would assume that goals should be followed.
January 1 2014 I made goals in regards to writing a certain number of pieces a month, submitting a certain number to a digital publication by summer, and submitting to  a print publication by fall. These goals were not followed. I again am going to make these goals but without such limited views. So expect newness.

crank operated love songs

you hate when I write
because back-to-front makes you ill
like the anenomes on 32nd street
or the smell of fulton market
I swallow  leftover bird-words
praising the patterns of lint
and the dancing hives you create
and the war-torn children you train
and the spines you twine
and tangle
and wrangle
I call you motherfucker
as a term of dear meat
the cease and desist hasn't stopped
you from collecting my hair
to braid back your sister
into contour line drawings
or tea leaves

smoke houses and you

venison prays at the night time
kneeling on honeycombs, crackled and whispering
they ask the skies for larger antlers
for that kool and the gang album they never got
and for the divorce to be a joke.
in earl gray lights, the tan man passes a note,
silly dear, you are only a woman.

educating on the transatlantic tunnel

we sell courses on weekends
and how to be humanic
but enrolled humans peer and pear
(which are my favorite fruit)
and deers are feared
or worshiped
i forget
but the russian mules know
four
and six takes the wheel
to the break in the map
because cartographers fell into heroin
and the atlantic shoreline
is dressed as a wake
and the floral endangerments
smell vaguely vaginal
and cinnamon
like when we left that corn
husk doll in the sun too long
and no one trimmed my nails properly
because daddy told me
only the real ones see diggers
when antiobiotics are currency
for the women with both
and then men have done
and your face cracked first.

blasphemy on the radio

i am lost
  with walls of walking stairs
    in a place where we forgot to
      how to whistle
and your mother is a marionette
moded and molded
to chips chipping metallic lice spouses
and soup tastes of motoring mint in your one girlfriend's braid
but no beetles eat berries
and snouts are the envy

I'm baaaaaack

wow, so it has been over a year since I have posted anything which is terrible!
I have gone through the longest dry spell my writing has ever seen I think, but have a renewed sense of commitment. I am even looking into an open mic night next week to try to re-inspire myself.

I will posting a new piece in a few minutes!

western records and my septic harddrive

the man lied about the ten gallon
hats that held only six
and johnny was rooting in
the scrap metal looking
for my graphing calculator
but i couldn't stand the concerto


it was cotton and eight after the evening
and mark is pulling at my hip skin
but I am busy rerehearsing my funeral
but the music is off and the foxtrot is wronged
so bathe me in coffee to forget the town
because I will


I am setting your pinned moths free
but that cat from last year
is chewing on their dust
and I am not pleased
but tin cans are planted
and whisper it is 1962

rain echoed blues sounds

whiskeyborn to the mommas
yester-ed, yes sir
and my dreams are lying of
curls-slain and tin can impatiens
grow out loud

you find romantics
in the bagel halves thrown
to children in shells
pink and eroding
like the long weekend

tattoo your face in
my armpit
then I will always know home
and when they sell me
to chickens, they can read
of the wrong

speak softer
into rain filled jugs
for my mouth cant stand the sound
click one and
two
and two
and static

hate you yet

you stand at twelve and twelve and 2
too tall
from me and
i think i love you
because i haven't learned
to hate you
yet the birds
and the turns
and the yellow cried
for that maple syrup smell
fades from the pillow
casing the one earring
i pierced your ear with
right.
was wrong
and swelling
tell me again the story of ours

"that summer you lay between my collar bones" (newest)

that summer you lay between my collar bones


you, the smell of potato rosemary bread
warm in my sheets baked
and twisted
like tiny whirlpools in the mattress
Maine in springs and foam

me, hands bathed in vanilla
extract and garlic still creeping
from my finger pads
orange rinds sleeping under my
nails to hold your soles to shoes

light honey-limps through the broke
glass pane taped with news print
we take turns reading the
stories aloud
april 14th 2003, same day
lasting forever (until it rains)
and that one story about the dog
and the house fire is always
our favorite