The electric book hums,

breath gently, contently

escaping between pages.

What if you popped a balloon

and the air kept coming

and coming?

This conjuncture stays in

the library where it belongs

tended by the purple librarian.

In the living room

the dance has become

joints half eaten by microbes,

rhythmically popping.

What starts as a good time

will end in death

as it always does.

In the shelves,

a sleeping beast with my face.


My motives caravan

through a red, peerless desert.

Water travels just ahead

slightly faster than either I

or my mirror glass needs

can go.

Out here,

straws and dictionaries

present serious problems.

As though it were dead skin

scraped from the devil’s heel

by a pumice stone,

my purest motive blows

around the others.

If I flew my determinations

like kites,

attached to my stringy nerves,

could they rise to Heaven

and beg for a cloud?


I escape from the camera,

breaking through the

red tape

like a finish line.

What difference does it

make if the old house

turns blue?

The surveillance of my feet

reveals slick roads.

Confined actors in a play

poorly scripted.

The wasps I shared my

candies with

sting one another.

The other side of bureaucratic eyes

is a dim place,

shy from old rejections.


Agnostic calendars

are great for those

whose lives are spiced

with regret.

On the cutting board,

her right arm.

Home is smart.

Weather is dumb,

beating the bones

out of what already dies.


the months refuse

to coalesce into a year.

She wants what she

can’t have—

a private train.

Her old job

encased amber.

Dirty Poem with Christmas

Found poetry on my phone.

Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.

Technology Poem

Omens are not good for me to get to see them again and again. Women writers and their bodies are wrong to say no. Insufficient information about myself is a very small community of the world. Skin needs a break. Feet of Christ are the hours of sleep. Originally published by Beard magazine and a half century fox, the history of women who have lust issues is on the rise.

There is so much to parse here -women and their privacy. Women and their needs. Christ as respite from the demands the world makes.

Predictive Text Poetry

I am using predictive text to write poems. I pick the word to start with, and then I choose 1 word from the 3 that are offered. Let’s see how that went.

The moon was so burnt out it was my favorite place to be. Corrosive bacteria can cause cancer or even three weeks of birth. Red light is always welcome in our churches. Feathered hair is silvered like a great idea and a great night.