Posts Tagged ‘stories’

Between the Risks

January 25, 2010

your six-string pickings are familiar like little red wagons

and white gravel drives or pedaling past barn skeletons

to Shirley’s grave in summer, self-taught on the few days left

to be young.


at fifteen I asked the nighttime forest to adopt me

into a broken clock religion of firefly rites

and boundless chapels housing windows shining

across midnight ceilings.  I was baptized

by the high sweet voices you gave me

and crucified the glaze on my eyes,

throat ringing harmony.


for years I could only love the things you loved

without hesitance, my heart was your heart

and it walked around outside me, burning

and humming strains of genius.


if there’s only room for one song when my

synapses are misfiring finally,

I want it to be yours:


d  a  b  g d

f#  g  a  d

c  d  g  b  d  g



November 25, 2009

there are so many things I am trying to say

in one breath, about how many men

have carved their thoughts into

my breasts and left me an unfinished

story lying belly-up on beds and tables

begging for a merciful ending.

I don’t want this to sound like porn,

I want it to sound like every real

and aching thing you’ve ever

heard, I want it to turn your heart

inside-out and make you feel

fifteen again, tender and green

and without shame.

I want to hold every

dying thing in my lap

so it’s not alone, just in case

dogs and mice and pigeons

can tell the difference between

“something breathing is here” and

“nothing breathing is here.”

I want to drive north on Maurer

past the white house at the intersection

by the train tracks, roll down the window

and yell look what you’ve done, you fucked

us both up ten times over

then apologize and remember

I’m smarter and better now, so

I’m told.  I want you to see

the Tastee Freeze on the corner.

I want you to be there for it

and understand.  I want to

figure out where home is

so we can go there.

I Think By Now We Can All Agree That I’m Not Very Good At This

November 16, 2009

My opening line is weak.

I am embarrassed that this

is on the internet.

The internet is embarrassed that

I am on it.  If you were

three Olympic judges

you would give me two fours

and a six, a pity six, because

I look sort of like the brunette

you dated in high school.

You lost your virginity with her

and it was not pity sex.  I’ll take

your pity six but not your pity sex.

That isn’t true, I will take your pity sex

and I will like it, a lot, and then you

will also like it a lot and

ta-da, we’ll just have sexy sex.

You don’t like that I said

‘sexy sex’ in a poem

and no longer find me attractive.

I think I am deceiving

myself.  I think stories

I wrote in second grade

are cooler than this poem.

My mom thinks the stories

I wrote in second grade

are cooler than this poem.

The stories I wrote in

second grade think they are

cooler than I am, and

they’re right.