Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Random Shit

the t-shirt

when next the situation arises
that i need to sleep at your place
and i borrow something to sleep in
don’t give me sweats or your best pajamas
i want your oldest, rattiest t-shirt
the Nirvana t-shirt that you bought
in 1992 from a record store
back when there were record stores
the one your mom spilled bleach on
so you didn’t take it to band camp
but it was okay because bleach
was their best album
the t-shirt that mopped up
your barf in college
the one your roommate spilled
both ranch dressing and candle wax on
at the same party
the one that’s faded from being washed 7,000 times
that needed washing a few more
the t-shirt that has a constellation
of holes in it that look
like the Falkland Islands
the t-shirt your dog had puppies on
but you cleaned that shirt and kept wearing it
because you love that dog
and you loved those puppies
and it made you want to keep
that fuckin’ t-shirt even more
give me that soft broken-in
raggedy t-shirt
that represents your entire life
give me that t-shirt
to sleep in

of things beautiful

a person looks
to the night sky
and sees stars

a poet looks
to the night sky
and sees a graveyard
of light

how horrible the heart of a poet
our burden a tragedy
of things beautiful

his girl friday

i will never be perfect
in any way
i am his
dream girl
is enough for me
as he
loves my flaws

sweet nothings

i don’t want a soft kiss

i want you

to make me

bite my lip


he was a rusty razor
in the drawer
my searching fingers
weren’t looking for


summers lies struggling
beneath the wait of autumn
murderous season
slicing away sunlight from her limbs
bleeding color onto orphaned trees

The World is Ours

were i given a room

in an art gallery

i would hang giant pull-down

Rand McNally maps along the walls

the sort your fourth grade teacher pulled down

from a metal box

in front of the blackboard

depicting colorful nebulous countries

we were to learn the name and population density of


when you enter my exhibit

the docent would instruct you to pull down

each bob hanging from the strings

to see the works contained


after the maps are in place

a projection  of photographs will begin

over the man-made borders

giving faces to the humanity

contained within


images of people

feeding the hungry

tending to the sick

cleaning oily beaches and garbage choked rivers

opening doors

rescuing unwanted animals and humans




making music

good deeds

kindness of all sorts

ending wars


the name of the exhibit

would simply be

The World is Ours


to be a poet this day

i suppose

i’m too happy

to be a poet this day

happy people tend to write

bloody awful poetry


i’m not drunk

i’m not high

i don’t need a spike

i like working in the city

i’m not heartbroken nor homeless

i’m not lonesome

i’m not horny

i’m not at war with god


my childhood

or a neighboring country

i’m not married or divorcing

i rather love my imperfect children

this is a poem for my fellow writers

heavy bleeders of ink

succumbers to whim

dancers of vehemence and fury

freedom fighters of the fantastic

who dream in crusades

look how beautiful you are when you smile

you smell of lavender

newsprint and vanilla icing

all this

and i get to say

tomorrow is my birthday


my desire becomes primitive

when i consider the way

loving him is more than emotion

it is biological


our own space on the periodic table


i want him

with the parts of me that desire

to nurse children

eat meat

wear fur

find warmth in firelight

especially when

i am beneath him

skin wet

my hands in his beard

watching the muscles ripple

from his shoulders

down his arms


i could remain there

until the next ice age

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