Usually, by the time I get to the bird house

at the zoo, my legs are ready to give way,

I am hot, feeling ungainly,

and I imagine all the peoples in the world

reduced to patterned chatter.

I realize I can’t add much more than a bird

to the scheme of things.

But I find them delicious.

Let there be cake

I’m not impressed anymore.

It’s like my glasses are too scratched

to see anything but days filled

with the same rolling wheels fueled by

fried foods and angry newscasters.

A woman is called brave for wearing

an outfit that looks like 1980’s vomit

while a man looking online for refuge

hits the underside of his desk

with his cock. They’re both empty.

The air is strange and tastes like

burnt leaves. Are there any waterfalls left?

I’m injured, moving slower and I wonder

if I’ll ever return to my normal speed.

When I try to meditate, my essence

becomes all about fried chicken

and mashed potatoes- and oh Lord,

Texas Sheet Cake… please!

A little longer, I keep telling myself

but I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.

Soft glow, strong pull

I’ve waited a long time to see the moon

and sometimes it seems

she’s been watching me

and maybe waiting for a reaction.

I don’t think she knows how thrilling

it is to learn her craters.

I already know I don’t measure up

but we can still dance to her light.

The hills at night almost demand it.

In the Bog

I left my womanly spirit in the bog

to be preserved in a state of punishment.

I chose to go to work and eat an apple.

Birdsong became idle chatter

and I was too busy to notice clouds.

Storms shook my insides, distracting me

from my place in front of the screen.

I noticed places in the pillars

where vermin had eaten their way in.

I couldn’t bear to look at my own parts

for fear of cracking wide open

unleashing all the tears enough

to flood the world.

I think at the end, the bog will loosen

its hold and there will be freedom

but we won’t understand the difference.

Flowers can be clipped or wild

and still carry a colorful tune.

No rest for the weary

The strings battled the legs

of the table

while he glowed

beneath sheets



to see if music or sleep

would win the day.

He was so warm,

she could read him

from across the street.

His table threw her

a love song in a minor key.