Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Random Shit

sweet creek water

my mother is vintage lovely
this Kentucky woman
who displays a tobacco store Indian
on her front porch
makes tea like sweet creek water
knows how to pin curl hair
can identify horse apple
crab apple
and peach trees
who remembers what
flower and occasion
Sunday church
corsages are for

big trains through small tunnels

it struck me
as funny
that free condoms
handed out in
New York City
had subway maps
on the wrappers
in case you were erect
and desperately needed
to get
to Yonkers

See Rock City

how far man has come
from the moment
we were a trillionth the size
of a mote of dust
sunbeam suspended
matter dancing out of existence on
antimatter stripper poles
super heated
into the biggest bang ever to blow
horny comets
into hadrons of extinct dinosaurs
dead shopping malls
kamikaze day traders
perched atop
financial district temples
sky diving down to
urine caked sidewalks
radicalized soccer moms
suicide bomb drum majors
high stepping into
Russian voting booths
and sheepy suburbanites
willing to eat hot artichokes

Brooklyn, Florida

I love you
after all
these years,
yes, I love you
after all these years…

memorial day

we give lilies
to your grave
to remember
that you gave
your bones

science fair

we are minerals
and death
sinewy tongued
carbon based
monstrosities of chemistry
capable of love
television and
hubris enough to murder a planet
and want more leg room on airplanes
we would find a way
to kill the stars
if they weren’t dead

My poetry is being held for questioning…

My poetry is irreverent, prone to sentimentality, and prurient behavior.

My poetry hates your mother.

My poetry worships humanity.

My poetry stuck a finger in your wedding cake.

My poetry made a blonde girl cry in Starbucks.

My poetry wants to overthrow the government.

My poetry misses her father.

My poetry screwed your sister in the back of a Chevrolet.

My poetry can’t sing, but she can dance, baby.

My poetry took a shit in your designer handbag.

My poetry is piss shiver art.

My poetry laughs too loudly.

My poetry thinks god has run out of excuses.

My poetry weeps for the dying world.

But mostly,

My poetry hopes

you’re enjoying the ride.

of mountains burning

while we were together
by the ocean
i was certain
i could smell a trace
of mountains burning
in the distance
redwood crackle
pine sap boiling
wide eyed coyotes running
our future reduced
to ashes and hemoglobin
i was not mistaken

simply because…it’s tuesday

there are moments when the house

aches with his absence

as do i

my frank sinatra singing in our shower

i find myself sweetly seeking him

feet sliding into his house slippers

fingers slowly uncapping his beard oil

the tines of his sandalwood comb

face burrowed into his pillow

the scent of his shirt collar against my lips

not because he’s been gone long

because i have never felt love like this before

simply because…it’s tuesday






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