dirt verse

ok, Saturday was the day of my sister's bachelorette, this is the day I was struck at a discount store on the left side of my head, suddenly a stabbing pain nearly brought me to my knees, however, in one second I thought, if I allow myself to fully hit the floor, one of the shoppers will totally steel my purse, in this purse is cash meant for my sister, in this shopping cart, at least 45 minutes of carefully chosen merchandise, the store will put all this away, and I'll be on the floor, sprawled with my shirt over my head, no purse, precious shopping down the tubes, so I held tight to the cart handle, I quickly recovered, just enough to get to the register and out to my car, squinting the pain, trying to coax it out of my temple to the back of my head so I could at least drive home and complain and cry in my husband's arms. later, I notice that I have a waterfall deep inside, I thought at first it was euphoria, but it was quickly followed by a sick wave of nausea, I then re...

Perpetual light never mixes to serve a rainbow worth real sadness. Sadness has a light of it's own, buried within the marble of a thunderbolt. A statement I believe today for various reasons, one being the loss of control and tightness in my chest from knowing the earth spins beneath me whether I'm still or on my way to save her.

I receive each droplet. I know that I am in a spot I wish to leave, but my feet got stuck. God, will you assist me in that hole, look in on me from time to time as your lesser than, as your grown child? I know all this was before me, before me. Destiny being comfort, but so hard to eat. Heartache being it's lovely self, there to unravel and accept. I also know my mother is slipping away, and this causes me to bend in half and lapse into the mercy of that circumstance. And I know I have a way of getting back up. Because there is much to be done. terrible clouds await. I love that I'm alive to greet them.

I always knew you would kill me holding your tremble and your water with my hands they used to be your hands, your child they used to be sweet bread and 2nd grade did you ever take notice at the old woman I was becoming did you never see the dirt under my fingernails - dug deep into the earth to find answers you held back I always knew you would kill me because I kept looking into you tilting my head into space alone with you - but you never looked back I'm still digging this time with fists aged - wicked these are my hands now.

my whole and all and entire my worry my insides roped off theater style I am moving towards the end with you this is where I will wave good-bye to your precious face remembering every ounce you've ever dropped into my mouth like the winged female bird you are to your core even if it went insane that stretched linen you spread across my beak I'll remember everytime you clapped when I danced I only ever did that to make you laugh I promise eternal. that means: I will miss you, not like missing goes but void of you - honor in the most high

thoughts that weave themselves around me, making me spider food, or maybe just plain crazy. but anyway.... 1. hating Sundays has become passe 2. sugar helps when you are the mean type 3. sometimes Darth Vader sits outside my window 4. when nobody is watching, I break dance poorly 5. I watch Pulp Fiction much too frequently 6. I do not make plans on a regular basis 7. I love my mom. I prefer to make lists in increments of 7, it just feels right.

office: The traffic whips around her as she contemplates the swirl of cream in her coffee. People here pick their noses and proceed to touch others and their belongings. Through the door, down the hall, her socks fall around her ankles. Hi, she says to the woman with all the kids. She reaches for the warm chocolate down the front of her trousers, and knows this will all be over in just eight hours. At lunchtime she'll go to the park, she'll sit under the tree that ends in pitchfork and frayed nerves. And like a good, big girl, not sit on anything very dirty. She'll come back through the doors, pull her hat off, and sniff the air smell out of her hair. But what follows her? What is biting at her ankles? Buy better socks honey. tiles: A trip to the restroom turns into a shouting match between the air dryer option or paper towels. There's no way she's putting her hands under that dryer. By the time her fingers dry, it will be way past five and maybe the front door w...

pie. skinny waitress filthy children adults that smoke teenagers who will only eat fries and the other women - staring out the greasy window with one glass tear that will never roll down. oh, and pie.

funny the ground is always cinnamon maybe the reason I look down is so that I may scrape it with my eyes into fine powder I choose to let escape into the dizzy south wind who will excavate this spicy trail? the vapor of female hands twisting in the moist turquoise my version of territory markings ever stop to think, perhaps I'd rather just not look up only to see the pain in every face void of the fragrant, soft earth

My aunt has been blind since birth. She's been known to cut the rain right out of the sky with a knife, so don't tell me you can't just stop crying. Just stop. *LIFE* the velvet hand of it, reaching up your dress for the silk and grass you are what you've become through the years: of mascara of hair of underwire the knuckles you have created to hold back so that your head is above water and feet firmly planted they knew to raise us this way with vined morning glories beaded up our spines to make our jobs look easy and prettier- but we know that we are in gardens - weeded high, hard to overcome our backs against trees old with gossip rough and dark and our knees, red from kneeling hearts, strong with yesterday hands, ready for healing.

the bridge of her nose is slick ivory and a stop sign for her glasses and eyes, marble and quick. arms raise to begin her story. hands motion like opening a creeky door into Narnia. Inside her unfolds the woman of her flame, red hair and a past life locked beneath her alabaster breast, beating, like ancient pearls.

I imagine she sits on her legs on her hardwood floor first comtemplating the room, then her pen and paper, then the freedom as she rips her way through every word until it is sand the sequence of movements after her fingers find ink, linking letter to letter about what happened last year or this morning at her stove or on her sidewalk who could ever know her or the secret that perfumes each wink and step. and of course, I had to ask. why she tears and destroys what she writes and scribbles, and creates? to which she replied sweetly, "because it's mine", with her small hand over her heart. oh, I think she is moonlight for having said that.

three homeless men gathered in the park with their plastic bags and collections of food scraps- of random cloth because it's january for goodness sakes I didn't feel the need to walk over with my money or walk in another direction, so I just waved hello. and smiled. When was the last time these guys had a woman say hello? I mean really.

I resent the perfection in even the dust that follows you. how can you be this wonderul? why is this? I hope to someday despise you.

I was back in high school and the whole time kept wondering why I was there being this age..and I had to climb a rickety ladder that was tall and narrow with a back pack dangling heavy by my side. My classmate said to hurry, hurry! I finally reached the top. There were tables with coffee cups, napkins, sweets, and a red canopy over the roof of the building. The sun was very bright, so underneath the red, everyone looked pink. I sat down relieved I had made it without falling, my back pack clutched against my heaving chest. I ordered my coffee black, still quite shaken from the climb. And then it suddenly started raining, and the canopy sunk. All the kids jumped off the roof for no reason. I stood there thinking it must have been the caffeine.

I hear the white noise when my chin points down and the spirit living above me pulls away a smidge to get a look at what is on my desk and on my mind maybe look through my pockets to find fragments of fountain drinks and sugar-free chocolate, which was not free nor do I feel free

right now, two weeks from 9:26pm, yesterday, and when you're 7 and 25 you will still be gone and the silk spun from your small, tender hands will remain at the center of me my odd-shaped heart my used-to-be that has all changed for rest of the rest of it. and changed by the only hours and words we have in common words I breathed into you so you could take with you my intensity, what is left of my mind, and the true love I would have shocked you with. you are my magic. I will always be waiting for you to come back.

sister, I love to pour you a cup of coffee. and watch your big, brown eyes follow the steam. and look at your son. and talk about what you are going to cook. and the way you are small and strong. and your thunder laugh. and magic hands. that's what I love.

my eyes are shut against this high-rise window seat I can't hear the cars with them closed this way, but I can hear how they tread the wet december with them open and I just know your eyes are closed but you know I'm out here moving along the mud with my tongue dragging behind me eating the words you leave out the words you don't say you are a devil I hate myself for doing that but I am so exquisite in that dead-walk pathetic and hollow tv watcher maybe devil, that's why you stopped looking my way.