Scrolling FB

It’s Saturday morning while I scroll FB,
Blowing whisps over a fox mug full of coffee,
Sipping so I don’t burn my tongue and I stumble upon a poet.

I follow BP and Olivia Gatwood pauses my thumb, speaking truth about
Women from Long Island and Manic Pixie Dream Girls so
I pop to Amazon to order her new book and
I wonder if BP is basic-bitch low-brow lyricism, maybe
it’s like Hallmark Cards, four line stanzas for Millennials…
eh who cares? It speaks truth to me.

If I were going to write a poem about mental illness
It would be from the broken perspective I have of it –
equal parts understanding and scornful of it’s sudden “popularity,” like
a block heel spurned by sleek stilettos until
10 years later we love it again because
we are a boring and predictable species.

I’m harsh and I’m cynical, judgmental like my grandma can be when
she perceives bêtes or glaring inadequacies but
that biting remark speaks truth to me too.

In a world with our lives laid bare by choice into
curated, campified versions of ourselves,
What would Susan make of these parades?
What would Olivia say – I don’t know –
Her book hasn’t arrived yet and anyway
the caffeine’s taken hold, my tongue’s scratched from its heat so
I switch over to WP to cleanse the muddied thoughts social media breeds because
I’ve clearly written two poems in one and the world needs to know it, obvi.

Man Found Drowned

My head is a gutter full of dead leaves,
so much so it can’t drink the rain.
And then another thought it tumbles in and

I think about his breath being pulled into the sea,
and then I choke, myself.
Please believe my tears their salt is true, No

I didn’t know him.
Is that a pre-requisite to grieve a father, a son?
A glee for life and love, lost too soon

I don’t think so?
And then I wonder when my breath will match his, pulled under
And then I say to myself you’re shellfish.

And then I can’t help but laugh at my obtuse absurdity

Because it’s what keeps the horror at bay.

Current Jam: “Sunshine,” Samiam
Current read: Short stories by Flannery O’Connor. Re-reading Neil Gaiman’s Sandman.

Random Thought: Augmented

Current Jam: “Family and Genus,” Shakey Graves

If I,
If I ever wander on by
Could you,
Flag me down and beg me to
Drop what I’m doing and sit beside you

Few things matter more to me, than
when you send a song my way,
something you heard in passing that
made you think of me.

or, even better, the moment it cued on
your pandora or
your spotify or
your google play –
perhaps a spark lit, a twinkle nicked, and I came
smiling into view.
Maybe a slight skip dropped into your step, because
you thought of us suddenly sharing the same strip of sidewalk.
Sharing a memory as it’s born before us.

I’d do the same – connect to you,
wave across that tight rope of time and space and
bring you closer to me, even if it’s only for 3:23.


Music > Poetry?

This started out as a haiku and then it just kept going, idon’tknow. ❤

Poems are stark, when
they don’t have notes to hold on-
to, don’t you think?

Lonely little words,
stuck dancing stag, without a
partner to waltz with.

You could say it’s sad,
phrases forced to soldier on.
Heartbreaking, really.

But then again, I
can’t read poetry without
humming in my heart.

Not so solo, then
are they? Supporting instead
a “silent” partner.

Leaves on wind, floating
on an invisible high
they’re singing inside.





I could look at pictures of you all afternoon or
videos. Maybe it’s
The way you stare at the camera, bare or
even when you look away. You’ve got some kind of smize and

Sinewy arms and
stark tattoos and
dimples beneath beard hair and
time ticks away and still I could
crawl over every millisecond of your exposure.

I keep thinking of Patricia Arquette in
True Romance (you know the movie, with
Christian Slater and
Elvis and
Gary Oldman – I know I never recognize him, either)
and she coos at Clarence,
“You’re so cool. You’re so cool.”

Widow peaks and
combat boots and
knuckles, wrinkled and worn despite your youth and
dirty and beautiful.

And I keep humming Tigers Jaw, that one song that Ben
sings and he coos at me
“It’s a cruel world / but it’s cool” and

You and I I think we think the
same but somehow sometimes things get trapped in the
space in between and it’s like
we talk in different dialects, but still that’s ok –
it’s cool

because you radiate in my world and I can’t explain why but
I think, I don’t know, but I think I don’t know if I could handle more of you.

Sunday Morning

“You are the leaves at my feet.
You are the hum of electric heat.”

Current Jam: “Hum,” Tigers Jaw

I’ve been craving attention. Emotional, yes, but physical too. I’m not even talking about sex, per se (though that would be nice). I’m talking about intimacy. Lying on the couch with an arm slung around me. Someone to come up behind me while I’m poring over whatever, to rub my shoulders and ask how my day went. Watching shitty TV together. I miss those little moments.

So I dunno here’s a poem about mornings and breakfast:

Wake me up gently,
Whisper my name with your
powdered slopes.

Smile into my neck,
make me stretch.
Lengthen my limbs, pull until they
push into yours.

Skate through my hair.
at that freckle, the one
you love. The one that’s always
flirting with you,
coyly catching your eye,

Slowly sink,
drink me in.
Make a river out of me.
Make me
rush –
Gush –
Eruptme –

Good morning, my love.
How did you sleep what did you dream?
Tell me as we
come back to earth.

I’ll make us breakfast hot coffee pressed
black just how you like it,
black as that night that snuck past us,
left us unawares, tucked, until the sunny side eggs sizzle up.

What was that?
Oh of course I recall
what you like and how.
Tit for tat, mon deux,
you give to me I’ll give to you.