i think pens don’t.

pens don’t pine for writer’s fingers.

for

flowery rubdowns,

stripped structure and

rhyming rhythms.

no, i think pens don’t.

ink won’t flow like

human tears down cold;

won’t mock you when you peer

with fevered woe at 

vanity.

we strike and blow

to move it like 

mirages, fit our whims

and wanton hymns,
so slow

in patterns speech

won’t grasp, that we

can’t reach..

no, i think pens don’t,

but writers put themselves

on inkblot cards

to let those we’re most

afraid of

guess what shape we take

our hiding in. 

4 weeks ago 2 notes
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if i could choose,
islands are good
but i prefer
peninsulas.

i appear alone
from land
but secretly keep
your whole
body
against me,
all sides
pulling me down
to you.

the moon
dont sound so bad
too.

every night
climbing down
til i get to you,

our tryst reflecting
in glitter,
til i head home again.

as long as i
could wade out into you
any way i can,
i would.

1 month ago 1 note
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dizzy princess.

there is something to be said
for women who carry happiness
like a cartoon bird on their shoulder.

those who clean up after dopey dwarves
and feed all the pretty horses,
who kick the shit and whistle.


princesses in peasant clothes,
in tallest towers, in glass coffins,
in fields of flowers
all want the same damn thing:
to be saved
by men with feathers
and horses
and swords
with respect for a woman who,
when he takes her home with him,
after the happily ever after
will consent to capture once again-
a briar rose in a giant garden.


create children from his seeds
and gaze out windows silently
(for queens are seen and not heard)
searching for the bird she would
croon happy tunes with.

1 month ago 2 notes
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your self esteem
must be This high
to be heard.

1 month ago 1 note
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2/23

we were bowling for columbine,
for doves that don’t know
breadcrumbs from breakfast.

clearly we are more refined
than they—

our buildings scrape skies until
we’re scrapped for cash
to fill the damn thing with our
lunchbroken staffs.

we crack the whips of usb mice
for the mac-ings of
an american dream.

where you toil your youth
in a fraternity
where you sell your soul for
diplomatic
mortality.

you pay with your life to
be certified in sciences
so you can
peck away at keyboards
and discover the chemistry
between pickles
and hamburger patties.

clearly we are more refined.

columbia is our nest
where we lay our eggs
for baby birds to
shit all over brethren down below.
who would sever a wing
to make a minimum wage
an ultimate win.

i’m inclined to covet
the millions of doves who
feather as a species,
kind enough to accept
our meager garbage;
the crusts of our bread
as if they couldn’t do better.

1 month ago 1 note
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August.

I find you in a burning crimson wildfire.

August,
a convenient season
to destroy fallen limbs- losses cut
from forests too full of bullshit.

We call: “toro, toro”,
mocking beasts of burden
with a flag colored the
opposite of surrender; challenge death by Taurus.

I gore no one but the fellow in the mirror.

As the glass shatters I can see
that man sure looks a lot like me.

We are august in the worst way,
leading ourselves as minotaurs
through mazes of our own design.

1 month ago 4 notes
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noveau

i invent new love,

patent pends on the 

fence between what

stones had set

and greener tints

seem bright on yonder side.

i invent new love,

something thick

like humidity in curly hair

wet from a swim.

a candle with a shorter wick,

a burning heat with

longer life, beneath a swirl of air

my new love sits

and melts with you. 

you are my novelty.

my carving’s niche.

i invent new love.

you are the stitch.

my tendrils sew. my breathing hitched.

keep threading and

we’ll both be rich. 

2 months ago 4 notes
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Hare

we’ll burrow as bunnies
keeping close to where the land
is more honest,
the color of its soul-
brown and ivory,
made of stones and millions of
moments led to make a million more.
i mustache you
why your whiskers tend to
tremble when i hop nearby,
when i chew clover,
when i scramble for your hearth.
is it fear of my charcoal, beaded gaze?
or is your fluttered muzzle
begging for my sniffing kiss?
Oh, Peter,
you don’t need to pilfer gardens
to bring home the bacon.

2 months ago 4 notes
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Cameo

If saving face
meant saltwater spillage
against red flesh
after bedtime

If it meant
breathing turned ragged
just behind the door
you left from

If it is
The candle overturned
in the icy cavern
of your heart

Then my face
is a perfect poise,
stuck inside of amber
on your mantle.

2 months ago 4 notes
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sneak

i wonder if there’s room for me

underneath the kitchen chair

where i could hide like seams

around your ankles.

holding denim

seems perfect for someone

blue.

it’s likely i would trip you,

but i promise the fall would be

most freeing.

slide on down here with me.

we’d crack linoleum,

dig at earth with earnesty

til we find the core of being. 

2 months ago 0 notes
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