Some days I am a machine gun
of apologies and gratitude,
an automatic weapon of regret
and sincerity and when the smoke
clears in the firing range
of our kitchen, your ears
ringing with vows
that it will never happen
again, I am the sound
of a hammer chattering
against the hollow
chamber of my promise.
I am every calibered casing
marked I’m sorry, forgive me,
I didn’t mean it.
Every brass thimble
of thank you and thank you
and thank you, scattered
on the tile floor where we hold
each other, swear nothing
has changed, and kiss
cartridges into the empty
magazines of our mouths.
Some quick photos I took of Ms. April when she was in town
Doing a mock press release of “Oedipus Rex” for my design class. The two poster concepts as photos.
February 19th, 2014
Only 3 more months in this apartment. I love it so much. I’ll miss it’s abundance of natural soft lighting.
How To Grow Your Backbone
Take a seam ripper
to the hem
of your silence.
to thaw the blizzard
between the hook
& eye of your bra.
Unchain those tornadoes
you’re hoarding in all
of your buttonholes.
Unbraid that cinch
around your waist.
If you’re sucking it in,
you can’t brace yourself
for the punch.
Had a fun time running around on a photo adventure with Nicco. Don’t do it as often as I should.
January 11th, 2014
It was winter, lunar, wet. At dusk
Pewter seedlings became moonlight orphans.
Pleased to meet you meat to please you
said the butcher’s sign in the window in the village.
Everything changed the year that we got married.
And after that we moved out to the suburbs.
How young we were, how…
Anyone who takes the time to be kind is beautiful.
Time away was a galaxy.
Tell me, how do bodies
fade gray and hazy?
How our beds became
unfamiliar, as much as
parceled dust between stars?
Make it all up—but make it up so truly that later it will happen that way.
I crave space. It charges my batteries. It helps me breathe. Being around people can be so exhausting, because most of them love to take and barely know how to give. Except for a rare few.
by Denise Villegas
Maybe I could sit here, like this,
until the frost bites over the nooks
of my body. Somehow, I’ll keep this
light in mind, until I die. The mornings
it pushes through the trees; waiting
for this yellow barrel to confess me
something grave, or slip a cone out
to strike me on the head.
Maybe I’ll keep this neck craned,
on my boxed in porch hour after hour
clasping a reused cup; always a tea string
tapping against a china handle. Maybe
I will keep this with me, the gazing
of pillow dust as it wanes like a ghostly
ancestor, every morning, separates from
me in the quiet winter air, these nights,
a new visitor faint and holding
the blankets edge in sleep.