Bleach

This is the bleach on the walls.

Where I want to live.

Where I was born to become from.

Grey clouds make droplets of tasteful love

leftover petals

from the honey flower I chewed.

Mother called

& through the clean screen door

I smelled warm bread

& the plastic of our short rug.

In a kind of heavenly happiness

I float inside the room

laughing sweetly

with everyone else around me.

What a comfort,

what a clean slate.

ELIZABETH by Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit

(Logic and common usage so commanding)

In thy own book that first thy name be writ,

Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
(Called anything, its meaning is the same)
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

(Zeno, a philosopher who said "that one's own name should never appear in one's own book")

Who You Are

One could argue 

all the day

on the way the world moves;

Captivating clouds, and sand storm grooves.

Though the only true thing

it comes right down to

is the mortal you choose to be,

and how much love you'll let loose.

Predator

Everything is in short focus,

lights are falling down,

scattered among the broken glass -

footsteps all around.

Empty was the creatures crate,

steady was the pace,

captured were the humans who

ne'er won the race.

Meddling in Mother's Garden

A stick in the mud.

Critters come to cuddle,

meddle in grubs,

their feet in the hollow.

That poor old sap

spilling its drink

on old folks

in petticoats --

Lizards licking sheep 

in anger...

You know,

we were taught to be strangers.

I told you, behave;

Who are we?

Animals among the trees

taking drinks from our cups

that double as voice?

Never a day we not be at rest -

where we not love our cousin, nature.

Where we not be free as bark on trees.

This day never come,

but it be meant to.

A Northwestern Family

One day, you will be all mine.

We will live beneath the trees and above the moss.

Our legs will feel light as we trudge over rocks & waterfalls.

The rain will be your love & the mountains your muse.

We will walk along the strings of higher education

& run with the forested roads.

The city will light up in Big Pink, & purple lights.

The town's people will forever love Voodoo & a Rocky sort of Horror.

I could not imagine your tiny hands growing,

any place other than where mine grew.

I know you will love the light air & chilled mornings.

The snowy holidays & brisk summers.

We will live in a brick built home

surrounded by evergreen trees.

Cool outside, but we sit cozy.

Warmed by the vibrant fire.

I will love him,

he will love me,

& we will love you my darlings

in a Northwestern home.

The Girl Who Reads Slam Poetry

I never chose to be what I am,

some woman of poetry;

a victim of slam?
& never meant I,

to take this road,

.

.

.

down.

But fate led me.

My parents wrote the diary:

Yes, they who,

laid hands...

Just to escape the world's way,

their day to day.

&

It kinda grows on you,

the way the world disapproves

of, a slammed down, me,

except in poetry...

& I never asked for this,

unenlightened sense,

of

only me.

The Girl Who Reads Slam Poetry.

A Couple

This rhombus of your love

envelops me,

laps my tears;

folding them

into worry no more.

I am reborn

to you -

One day,

I hope

you will be
unto me
too.

Somewhere On A Star

I looked up today.

Wrote you in my mouth.

But I fell in a frenzy

when I couldn't see your eyes.

How dark it is here

without you...

anxious

Ever to fit
in a box
made of crumbs,
soaked in the mercy
of dishes last night.