curled ospreys have nothing on gray ceilings..
the shadow they lack
turns the world in fear
turns the world blue in the lips
and shady on wide eyes/ us

my cat and the moon

I cannot find my cat
in the moon.
Once she sees the great white
behind my window,
I lose her black eyes.

The stars shake from her whiskers.
And her throat wishes she could howl
like coyotes do. Like humans bellow
when something is stolen.

To her, we are not the moon.
To us, the moon is not a star.
It comes, sometimes,
when not in the rain
and tickles the tide.

She shakes in her sleep,
and sighs, like only moon keepers do,

Until at last, she turns her gaze
and decides to eat.


conversations with a brick

I would like you to know that
your eyes squint when you laugh.
and this makes me move my lips up
and lack relevant thought for the space I’ve created
in between whatever thing I’ve just said
and the next space I’ll make
when you see me gaping at your big eyes
not knowing what I said or what I thought
or why we trust each other enough to close our eyes
from the voices we fling at the restaurant window.

The dangers of personification

my shoes sit on the floor neatly,
the left next to the other,
facing a shy angle from the bed
with their toes ready to walk to class.

I had since forgotten about them,
packing and reading and such,
but their white laces tangle in
and out and underneath their tongues,
underneath their soles, lips, heels and
eyes. We wait, I think they say,
We wait for the sun to rise
so we can feel flight and friction and earth
again and again and again.

From this side of the Skull

My chewing probably bothers the guy studying a table over.
It probably wakes up my tired housemate,
Probably pops her from a warm dark place, suddenly aware
Of a gnawing metronome, shifting and rummaging and tasting;
You can probably hear it in outer space,
an alien on the moon with a stethoscope
Smirking curiously, Ah human,
You may be what you ingest,
But you are not
as quiet!

favorite fruits

There’s not much
to say about a rainy
Thursday, other than
sometimes you have to eat
the funny tasting ones before
finding the best of your favorite
fruits. Like nectarines, sometimes
you never know
what grew behind the skin.


the second pair of hands evaporates
above the always empty
passenger’s seat,
but the green flakes are
blooming again
after the caterpillars ate it all away.
And I’m glad
to see the gray tint
of spring in the breeze again,
glad to see the clarity of morning
down my own arms
and invisible in the blue.
What speed my feet have gained,
What patience I’d like them
to hold.

Dear August;

You listened to my voice
and still carried me home,
pleading please go, please
singing to thick night air
and metered yellow lines;

We move in unison, through silences
and humming mornings, happening upon
clouds and moths and dirt roads;
your red body lined with wax and scratches
and mine lined with skin;

Dear August,
I’m sorry this name never stuck.
It smells of church basements
and you smell like the beach,
like an ocean town twenty years too old.

It’s more of a wish than a name,
a rotating notion that you’re not
a machine.
Thrusting pistons, Cylinders, Gas, Brakes,
metal and rubber things like that.

What if you were to not start,
right here, on this hill
as that AAA truck peels away
at the sight of a used car dealership?

Why do you want to die
so badly?
Is it too mocking
to ask if you need a rest?

Throw me into the landfill.
Metal and rubber and things
crunched up and stationary,
Work must be boring.
The wind must be old.

You must hate the sound of my voice
by now.
Thank you, seats and doors and motor and hood,
thank you
for lasting; for starting one more time.

Sleeping Legs

Of this do we soon regret:
without first
jumping at the chance.

I dreamed I could jump
high as I believed.
My legs are springy.
Not light, not dense, not

I can propel in the
not-wine-like sky
not-tea-like air
And spaces only revealed

Under the watch of my brain,
as my body flies, floats, moves
over roofs, walls, stairs, branches,
But that’s just it:

I believe my legs when awake
Are no different under sleep.
I’m no earth, no bone,
no flesh in my dreams,

But a morphing electric,
A life in infinite phases
or just below,
I am faceless, nameless,

relatively undefined,
an arrow, a logical cat.
And that’s why reality
is a bore.

It sucks all the lives
out of dreaming,
keeps creativity in out skulls,
our legs locked beneath our skin

and static truths, like these legs,
only ignite
behind the soft white jelly
of our balmy eyes.