Tuesday, January 31, 2012


I don't like this medium
It corrects my posture.
Posture is everything.
Juliet looks up
Dante travels down
Thoreau slouches over beans
And here I sit
Erect and miserable.

Monday, January 30, 2012


If I wrote down anything
It'd be a letter to you
for everything you've done.

It'd scream of my insignificance
compared to your beauty
It'd weep in song for your touch
Everything good would pour out

We'd be raindrops clinging together on a windowsill
Or pages in a book holding tight to one another
We'd sail with masts full of wind
Our smiles breaking the sea
The day would seem as living nostalgia
The reds deeper, the greens lusher,
Our lips fuller, our mouths closer.


It's not that I'm busy
It's not that I've done anything
It's that I'm lazy
It's here
It's reheatable
It's leftovers


She rolled over and whispered 
"I don't love you."
Winter had taken all but one red leaf from the tree outside
I had delivered the rest to their plastic tombs
The branches were dry and fragile
Ready to pummel the cars below 
The air sat in your lung 
Maybe I expected it
I laid there faking a thought
She waited for my reply.