Real Slippery

The black heart is painted over. Mouths turn down, but the sun speaks directly to the skin. Better we run now then look back. In the morning you are the only key for the lock and come night, who knows who could break in. My words are your words inside out. My daughter likes sock puppets, a hand can make something real, even when you have given up on finding bunnies in the clouds. Memorize the way the chair waits, how the weight can be steadied. I worry because my mother bought a chair with a crack in the leg, mascara is harder to clean up than blood. In the afternoon there is a lull and even flies hang upside down to see that the world is perfectly flipped.

Lace of the Moon

Lace of the Moon

Women are slippery like buttons
in the fumbling hands of men.
Withdrawing from the confines,
a backdoor in the dark.

Woods near by swallow.
Men of fang, wait
with their mouths open.
Women are always braless

in sheer white night gowns.
Night ghouls are haunted
by the lace of the moon.
Women of this sort

only claw and never scream
when they are being consumed
by the dampness of foliage,
soiled hands of danger.

Oh Good

Addiction to the miserable possibilities

Addictions get greasy because of that quick flip down the steps,
images flash, pill boxes pop and we each have one, some.
We pass around our imperfect selves on silver platters
and everyone takes a slice. I keep seeing a crash.

As the horrible unravels like a little girl's sock monkey
I see there is nothing wrong, but the rock in my gut
grows moss, collects spiders and dark whatnot.
Everything is good, so good-- I am afraid.

The Little Graveyard

The Little Graveyard Going Home


You can't see the top of the hill
when you are riding along the bumpy road.

The first time I passed the graveyard
my foot punched the gas.

From the corner of my eye the angels
erected their wings into the wind, unaffected.

When you go downhill you can just coast.

The second time I passed the graveyard
I thought about all of the secrets being held.

I don't mind seeing the stones
because they are all signs of love
as I return home to those I love.

The third time I passed the graveyard
I waved.

Today the stones were wet from rain
and probably nobody would visit,
but the grass is greener and the flowers are happy.

Black Heart Graffiti

I saw a little black graffiti heart today on the way to work. It wasn't a fast dark cat wondering about luck, it had some hope in it. I drove fast and vowed to remember it, and I will see it again before the long drive, after the long coffee and now I will remember, oh there is my little squiggle of luck coming now.