Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Curiosities



house fire

the love of a poet is a house fire

all consuming

burned rafters

wedding china shattered

baby pictures lost

yet when there is nothing left

but the sun and smoke to rise

you will find

the words made it out alive

number two

he loved everything

in pencil


the only things

i don’t blame him for

are all the earrings i lost

song of the south

I think back on the backwards behaviors I witnessed growing up.

The hateful tendencies modeled for me, with a blessed few exceptions that glisten with rarity.

I cannot blame people who were and remain too ignorant to conduct themselves any differently, but I will never forget. To forget is to fall victim to the past.

Family does not always equate with goodness if its members are bad apples, you see.

I grew to emulate sickness, as children learn what they live, but matured toward enlightment eventually.

It’s okay to trust, to be honest, to love completely.

I have benefited from these heartbreaking moments. Bestowed upon me was a how-not-to guide.

What was broken inside me by the dysfunction of other people, is still mine to fix… and I’m trying, damn it, even succeeding regularly.

So, if I miss a few family reunions from now until the end of time, don’t bother forgiving me.

place settings

I thought that I loved you,

but it was just your talent for lying

over candlelight.

Liturgy of the Hours

every night you were away

i sought you out

through blackberry bramble ether

from weeping constellations above dixmyth avenue

to jessamine county barns filled with horse hay

perpetually wrapping blue ribbon around my finger

whispering vespers

my plea to the particles of the universe

to hold you together

to bring you back from oblivion

as you had done for me

you are my chosen family

inextricably part

of my thunderous heart

to which you will always hold the latchkey

fainting goat

every day

with him

was the last day

pavlov’s monday

she got distracted mid-orgasm

thinking about a situation at work

and cursed, baffled

that’s fine, she thought

the spacious hierarchy

and building structure will allow for

never walking through

that department again

fuck you, all the same

as the days pile up

flash bulb memories

are what i remember

of the alcoholic father

the alcoholic first husband

the drunken loss of a decade with the blue eyes

it may be a disease but that makes you no less vile as a person

there’s no excuse for

trembling as my dad threw a giant television set out the front door into the yard

stairs turning upside down as the father of my sons headbutted me into submission

for wanting to leave his dysfunctions

threats of handguns and bodybags

that’s booze soaked rage

a blitzkrieg of anger

a pot boiled over

every tea kettle in the world simultaneously

spitting steam


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