from p.4 on Mon., 11/30

89-cent matchboxes are never
coy in jacket pockets,

bare feet on cold asphalt,
flints and sparks,

hot breath meets cold air,
pyromaniacal dreams!


-----


Hundreds of conversations
all at once,
an echoing chasm of
college questions.

If I've said it once,
I've said it
a hundred times.

Happy Thanksgiving.


-----


The feeling of not
being able to breathe,
wanting to just
stand up and scream.

Speak to me.
Speak to us.

The sound of  voice is all I now hold onto.
Breath by breath
by breath.


-----



This is the end.
Blankly stated.

Now I don't have
to wrack my brain,
trying to think of good
poetry.

from p.1 on Mon., 11/30

Ice cold wonderland
run away under the h and,

I, I admit it,

alright I admit it.

We've all got a price tag,

every bag, bracelet, just face it.

never was much of a romantic.

-----

The winter splinter
cuts open my finger

burrowing itself deep within me,

as if an icicle

punctured my heart.

-----

Snow crunches beneath

my feet

every step making

a dent

a blemish

in the fresh powder.

from p.4 on Mon., Nov. 16th

A call to home,
trapped words, foul mouths.

Phone like creaks.

Interrogated under a lamp-post,
funnel of light.

The phoneline clicks.
I say goodbye after the fact.


-----


Confusion painted her
face like Picasso.

Pain painted her face
like Van Gogh.

Colors coated her porcelain
white skin like spilled
wine on a shirt tossed in
dye and mud.


-----


The road beneath
the duct.

Somewhere
the car drives.

Snow gathered by the street.

from p.1 on Mon., Nov. 16th

A chain and shackle

lock me in place.

The phone rings,

mimicking a thousand

small bees in a bag.

The paycheck holds me 

here. And over my

counter, 

a rusty and dilapidated form asks

for directions.

-----

The blistering rage

could only be calmed by the smooth

glaze of the donut.

It's blueberry dots like a 

cloud on a hot day.

I understand, though.

We haev both snapped,

but in different ways.

All we want is to be left alone.

-----

Watching all

from teh sky they fall

falling

falling

down around my seat.

from Monday, November 9th

The frost on my windshield
crusts-over and covers my
car.

I walk outside into the evening

Shaking and shivering, watching
my breath go
with the wind.


-----


The wrinkly old
woman behind the
counter.

counted change from
the register.

And very softly sang
John Melloncamp lyrics
to herself
on a sunny day.


-----


You spew poison from
your slippery mouth.
It rains down on me,
covers me,
until it burns deep
into my throat.

We promised that
we'd never become this,
but somehow,
I always knew you'd
end up this way.


-----


Sorry,
but poetry has escaped me
it left in the morning
before I could say bye.

It's gone

and I don't know
if it will come back.

I guess
we'll try again
next weekend.

from p.4 on Mon., Nov. 2nd

Leaves are on
the ground.

A college essay is on
my desk.

I didn't get any candy.

Halloween sucked.

-----

"It will be okay,"

the unanswering words

melt away

as the seeds of doubt are sewn.

Forever thinking "I'm not good enough,"

never realizing the flower

growing out of the concrete:

its petals damaged

yet it perseveres.

-----

The water fell,

it traveled up her

feet, slinked past her 

knee, and softly 

harbored into her eye.

For she didn't cry,

and if she did they

would always find

their way back to 

her.

from p.1 on Mon., Nov. 2nd

People talk, but
nothing is said.

Only sounds of
insecurities and
lies.


-----


A lonesome dirt road,
crunch of tires,
one bridge,

haunted by the past.

The battle drums echo through the valley.


-----


Chocaliate milk cows and lullabies,
quench a baby's thirst to cry
in remembrance of the good times, we watch Bill Nye.

Nowadays, barely anyone tries
thanks to the bright,
colorful, newpants
hodge-podge.


-----


Wake from your sleep,
look at the one you love,

go to school,
go to work,

sleep.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

from P.4 on Mon., Oct. 26th

Forest green
freckles of
grass tickle
each other in the
crevasses of
my tiny toes
as the wild wind
gusts against
my body.

I have to win the race.


-----


The cool breeze blows,
blows away any temptation,
towards any misguided
fortune that could be
found outside.

With the leaves crashing
down, we can only
sit on the windowsill
and imagine life past
these constricting walls.


-----


Where warm wood
cracks and shakes:
black, tan, and
grey tails.

The story ends as
it began.

Warm wood cracks
and shakes.

from P.1 on Mon., Oct. 26th

Onion volcano,
shrimp tales,
another year older.

Smoke & Fire

But the most important
person isn't there.

Sorry, Abigail.

-----

As the sun shines on
my face, I sit and watch:

as the wind sweeps over
the grass, the leaves
fall off of their dormant
branches, into the air,
the water form a waterfall.


-----


The crisp, wet,
grass lays
still.

Only to move
when crushed.

The frosted
grass a
remembrance
of fall.

from p.4 on Mon., Oct. 19th

"Congratulations!"
is the first word I see--
no need to read anymore.

My mom cried.
My dad shouted with joy.

It's a funny thing
when everythign changes.

I'm in college.

But yet
I'm still here,
writing some dumb poem.


-----


Frozen pizza and
Cherry Garcia are
all that's left of
what once was.

A broken bag of peas
half-frozen and clung
to the grate.


-----


The engine sat bar
in the engine bay.
The valve casing lying
on the floor.

Spark plugs corroded
and broken, coated
in oil.

Long may you run.


-----


Fallen rose petals and
moldy stems
accumulate below my feet.

Messes to clean
with nothing but
bare hands.

All worth it.

Beauty

Made from nothing
but broken pieces of life.

from p.1 on Mon., October 20th

Ostrich-flavored cats

that smell of

armadillo soup.

Dipped

in ranch,

these cats are like

no other.

Meow.

-----

Drops fall from the

sky in a thousand

mini suicides that

echo through the 

house, onto my

living-room window.

Wind blows sending

a faint chill up my

spine. Oh how I love 

this time of year.

from Mon., Oct. 12th

A head poked out the
window, and onto the night.
Music trailed behind the
car, distorted by the
wind and the darkness.

Her hair tangles with
the sky. She was happy.


-----


Light hitting, shining on the subject.
Through the lens, it considers where
beauty really is.

Is it on the Senior or on her surroundings?


-----


ball your first when I try to slip through you,
smear me over when I lash out,
be the lighthouse to my mistakes.

Then starve me, hollow me mout,
only leaving room for you.

then when you're ready,
let me leak through your fingers.

A gooey puddle.


-----


The air is heavy
with the regret of a
a thousand people.

and the night black beacon on the dreams
and were snuffed of their innocence.

from p.4 on Mon., Oct. 5th

He sat alone,
the frog-finngered boy
on the train tracks.
Careful not to step on the
shards of beer bottles
while he danced
and sang
and dreamed
of being anywhere but there.
Alone.


-----


Rustling leaves fall to
harsh dirt.

The bottle falls shattering
into nothing, reminiscent of what
it once was.

Water ripples in ovals
encompassing time and our
place in it.

Leaves fall to harsh dirt.


-----


The smudged photographs
illuminate the pathways of her fingertips.
She only saw the good in them,

flipped through the bad ones and

found something that made her happy.

from p.1 on Mon., Oct. 5th

The moon,
memory,
the motorists' mufflers,

sing lovesongs to the
crisp October night
and the air,
that flows softly
through the ends
of your let down
hair.


-----


Raindrops glimmer on fallen leaves.
Full branches catch the soft morning sun,
toss handfuls of shadow
onto joyous faces and chilly noses.

The elk sing of great victories.
The aspen groves strengthen connection.


-----


Sounds so loud they make the
cat cry out.
Jamming so hard that your
hat flies off.

Hands bleeding,
Ears screaming.

Rough,
Tough.

From p.1 on Mon., 9/28

Ah yes,
a year closer
to retirement.

A candle burning bright,
as the wax drips down,
celebrating,
confetti like rain,
un-controlable,
but beautiful.


-----


The streets were talking.
The streets sang songs,

they played lullabies
and I

walked dreamily
through canyons of
starlit buildings.


-----


Funk Music,
Beach Goth,

The cosmic vibrations
of a million suns
rattle through the room.

Space dance,
leather pants.


-----


Anger boiling and bubbling,
ebb and flow of tears and frustration.

8 years passed
childhood relationship
crumble under stress of distance & responsibility.

Emotional abuse
leaves scars much harder
to find that buises.

from p. 4 on Mon., 9/28

Her mind an album,

a collection of

memories. All except

one.

One

track was completely

re-recorded.

-----

Symphonies play in my head.

Violins and tamborines like

waves break on, through the

night air.

Agog!

The kings of

olden times. Trying to

seal the patchwork. Man 

always tries to fix what

is not faulted.

-----

Aviator sunglasses

simmered on the field.

Scarves and leather 

jackets piled along

with body panels in

the cacophony of

Paris, Missouri.

-----

Dark grainy sand

the horizon wanders

restless sunset

gazes upon the sea

the sound of 

blue waves

nothing else

at the same time

toxic but beautiful.

from p.4 on Mon., Sept. 21st

A bright waxing-crescent moon
illuminates cooled pavement,
inspires laughter and sponaneity.

Carelessly, they run and dance
through chilling sprinklers,
wavering grass.


-----


The sun taking up my whole view.
Butterflies gather in my stomach.
A rocky bus ride as the wind blows.

Waiting for my turn,
we line up light sheep
for the finish-line.


-----


Driving, listening, the world is going
by.

The breze from the dusty box sweeps my face,
my hairs find little tiny knots,
light rays burn my perfect petaled skin.

Aren't we all flowers?

The car stops.


-----


Brush strokes.

Cover the old.
Create the new.

Brush Strokes.

Reminiscent memories,
specifically of you.

Brush strokes.

form p.1 on Mon., Sept. 21st

Black sharpied Xs linger, marking flesh.

The smell of youth
obvious in a place like this

confused glances fly by

clear glass not tainted by caramel colored booze.

One lost in a a chessboard of people.

-----

A miniature man

dances excitedly in 

circles around a corduroy

chair.

A great ripe pear rests 

in the arms of the 

chair thinking about family

problems.

The room is white with 

black curtains.

-----

I didn't know

as I blurted words.

You were there.

I felt like the leaves 

not yet ready to fall.

But soon forgiven,

for leaving too soon,

still mad at my fallen self.

-----

When spiraling hills decayed,

leaving behind a concrete

metropolis, often compared to a utopia.

But even there,

dilapidated steel and rock

infringes on the beauty

of what a city is meant

to be, odd shaped

building with fogged 

yellow glass, rest below

chrome and silver

pillars to the sky.

Thge impression of man

learning to walk upright,

as he leaves his cave.

from p.4 on Mon., Sept. 14th

you were in a cold seat,
I was 104 degrees at the ready. Kept in cages
I told you what I was afraid of.

Kept me safe
but unclear.

I told you I regretted and admired
that I made you so special,
I was lost in my fever, I was
unafraid.

But I wasn't made special, I had a fever.

-----

My little ponie ran away and
bumble bees strike fear in
the 5 year-old and the 17 year-old.
Incredibly infiltrate our hearts and yes while
Packers, Broncos, and Cowboys
fans scream with pride.
Broken hearts are healed with
candy and tears washed away
with laughter.

Glass bulbs illuminated
the patio, covered in
rusting steel furniture.
Music danced between
those waiting in line for
the milk can, that dairy
hipster heaven we all
love so much.

from p.1 on Mon., Sept. 14th

Teen hearts race

dancing through the

night

Only to stop when the lights turn on. 

Do they realize this is how it feels to be alive?

-----

Red walls match red-rimmed eyes.

Time moves slowly, as a flood of people descends.

Knees sore, head aches, but the salesman pitch must be made.

The shift ticks by, only 6 hours left.

Soccer moms and old men blend together

all carelessly spending money.

-----

The smell of smoke

emerging from the

campfire surrounds my

face as coyotes howl into 

the distance. I realize

my marshmallow is black

from the fire kissing the

once white surface.

-----

Celery stick fingers

wrap around the cup.

The man's emaciated

face slurps slurpee

through a straw, caving

in his face.

from p.4 on Mon., 8/31

• She's taken many gifts from
  her ancestors.
  Freckles sprout across her bony cheeks,
  a dimple to match.
  Blond hair and rusty eyes,
  she is a truck in an abandoned
  lot,
  rough running engine, sultry.
  A voice from a jungle.

• Poetry dances
  among the stars
  in a flowy
  sundress toppled
  with a wildflower
  floral crown made
  of tiny daisies
  she picked herself.

• The footprints, tears, coffee
  stains, coating the porcelain
  white paper, tells a story
  opening our minds and
  souls through each imperfection
  that makes poetry its
  self.

from p.1 on Mon., 8/31

• I should stop
  watching romance movies.
  I should stop
  taking solace in the ache
  of how they love each other.
  I should stop
  texting the boy
  I'm afraid to quit loving.
  But I can't
  I can't.

• An aggressive whip of water is sent through the air.
  Left behind by this protective rubber minion.
  Nozzles. flying and smashing
  but it is not left to
  run on its own. Because
  it's tether is also its
  lifeline. And a faucet goes
  both ways.

• The wind whips my
  face as I stroll in
  my big box of white,
  the music lightly sings
  to the emptiness of
  the road.
  My stomach rises and
  falls to the beat of
  the road.

• My hands & feet are
  strained, gripping onto the
  warm, red, abrasive sandstone.
  I'm trembling nervous
  I'll fall, yet knowing
  the ropes will catch
  me. I hear the rustle of
  the leaves, faint shouting,
  & the clinking of carabiners
  & the cheer of getting to the top.

Show/Tell Matching Contraption from Wed. 8/26

link to document

from p.4 on Mon., Aug. 17th

River & Drum Work:

1.

Glass cases fill the room

overflowing with small rocks

and body jewelry of all 

shapes and sizes that

will soon be in the ears

and mouths and belly buttons

of people in the shop. The 

needle is hot, the jewel was picked, and she 

was ready to be pierced.

Guages. Bold and quaint.

People with different lives.

Gathered in a body art 

shop. Down 13th. Brood and

pass. Covered by diamonds

and gold. A vivid omen

in the air.

2.

Her stuff was packed

up in every corner.

Every wall looked

a little too blank

for my comfort.

We walked out the door

and gave one more group hug, 

the three best friends

are temporarily separate.

Things in boxes.

Walls blank.

Bitter Sweetness.

Lost for words.

This is only goodbye

for a while.

This is the way it goes.

3.

The trail was rocky

and I could hear

my sneakers press

agains the gravel,

all while the bright

sun shined through

my eyes and the

trees whistled

above my head

through the hot wind.

The rocks: loud as a
I stepped. The trees 

whistling. The sun hot.

Very bright, my eyes, 

the sky, blue. Beautiful.

from p.1 on Mon., Aug. 17th

River & Drum Work:

1.
A raging bonfire
was started with
the branches from
a falling tree and a
ton of lighter fluid.

Bonfire. Burning wood.
Crackling. Smell of
Smoke. S'mores.




2.
The steady melodic drone
of the drums rattles on,
pushing and pulling the
anxious crowd like the
moon does a wave,
unleashing bottled energy
to the rhythm of the
song.

Bodies sway. Jump!
Dance! Flailing limbs!
Obscured views. Shouts
of joy. Unshed songs.
And anthems cheer.



3.
Lifeguarding is real lame. I want to go away in my brain. Sun is hot, burns my skin, I gotta win. Relaxing all the time, I wish I could rhyme.

Guard. LIfe. Right! Clean
Pool. Enforce the rule!
WALK! Don't run, you bum.
At the pool. All the time. What a crime.

from p.4 on the Monday after Prom.

• I hate the mannequins
  of Old Navy
  
  because they
  are the perfect
  plastic family
  
  when you never
  even got me that
  Barbie for my 8th
  birthday.

• Anonymous
  names slides like raw eggs
  off the smooth surface
  of your windowless eyes.
  
  runny yolks breathing into
  marigold bursts,
  technicolor pixels.

• Fists join in the
  air rebelling
  against Death,
  living Young.
  Slaughtering Time.

• As the night
  became morning
  and friends
  became family,
  I fell in love
  with the thought
  of being in love.

from p1. on the Monday after Prom

• Sifting through your
  too-big pockets, which
  never did fit your hands
  like mine did.
  
  There are twelve pennies
  which is too many for
  anyone to carry.
  
  I never did like change.

• A single thread holds
  the worn-down
  heart-strings together
  then,
  
  he hangs up.

• A rush and song of water
  
  leads
       us
            down
  
  to the trees.

• I joke a lot,
  
  I know.
  
  I just don't want
  to cry.

from p.6 on Mon., May 4th

• He walked
  with his head held
  high, while the world
  pushed harder and harder
  onto his shoulders.

• Darkened skies that
  cried as the wind
  howled.

• Feel the chilled,
  loud wind
  whipping against &
  through my hear as I speed
  down the trail.

• The smooth, sleek
  plastic laid between
  my palms as its buttons were
  mashed desperately trying
  to seek
  revenge.

• The crust, perfectly cooled,
  a golden brown. The greasy goodness
  on my hand as I pulled the white cheese
  layer, showing red sauce
  now
  filling my shirt.
  A stain that would last a lifetime.

from p.3 on Mon., May 4th

• Multiple dressing rooms,
  lots of loud people,
  over-friendly customer service.
  "Can I help you?"
  Expensive price tags &
  friends' opinions.

• Feeling the warmth
  of the fluffy dark
  blanket over time,
  as I settle down on the bed
  that's like a
  cloud catching my
  z's. In a pitch-black space,
  worrying about nothing,
  not even waking up early.

• Filling everywhere
  like paper to a glue-stick,
  the fence-post weeps.

from p.4 Mon., April 13th

• Drip drop typically
  rain falls down
  serendipity.

• Hold the whole wide world
  Magnified beneath a glass
  All the little ants.

• Time hurling out of
  Control making symbolic
  Meaning of itself.

• I sit here with thoughts,
  That simply can't be
  Put on paper.

• Haikus are so lame,
  I don't like being re-
  str-ict-ed at all.

from p.1 on Mon., April 13th

• Late at the drive-thru
  A single sneeze echoes
  quickly flee the scene

• The little finger
  with extraordinary traits
  he is essential

• Haikus are the worst
  They serve no purpose for me
  I like emotion

• The fresh breeze
  Having time to escape
  No one but myself

• And in the bittersweet
  silence
  I fell in love with what I couldn't have

• You're sitting by me
  saying how you're lonely
  do I not exist?

from p.1 on Mon., April 6th

• Darkness hid the touch of our hands,
  As we grasped the moonlight.
  But ferocious and fiery sunlight,
  altered your mind,
  by morning time.

• Easter bunny faces
  soiled
  with ugly masquerades
  of disappointment over
  dinner.

• I was an angel,
  you could see my wings.
  
  They reached far across the sky.
  
  But now,
  I've shed my wings,
  I'm not an angel anymore.
  
  After being touched by
  the sins of the earth,
  I smile.
  
  What's the big deal?

• Within, I am bound by
  the coast and the power of it--
  copper wiring grounds me
  to tiny pebbles on the
  water and
  sea foam, which is
  the oldest after all.

from p.4 on Mon., April 6th

• The stretching miles
  add up
  as we search for
  the joy we were promised.

• Work the land
  as it works you
  
  into a grainy
  extension
  of soil skin
  and groundwater
  blood
  
  pumping through
  irrigation veins.

• Soaring over the
  steep slopes of
  those better
  than you.

• Only in elevators
  we meet
  by chance.
  
  The air is confused
  as two strangers
  reunite once more.
  
  I only know one thing:
  his name is Ryan.

from p.4 on Mon., March 30th

• Trying to find truth
  in what has been said.
  
  But always wondering
  what has been forgotten.

• Air crisp enough to cut,
  colder than dry ice,
  breath freezes before
  it even leaves your
  mouth.
  
  Crunching ice,
  walking alone.

• Pounding rays
  can't conquer
  crystalline waters
  
                              paradise.

• the tingling
  sensation
  
  raindrops tapping
  my skin
  
  & fading away...

from p.1 March 30th

• Still finding
  sand in my suitcase,
  still finding sun-
  screen on my clothes.
  
  It's not over yet.

• Paraplegic cats
  feeding tubes
  old feelings
  new feeling
  
  but mostly video games.

• Wasted.
  
  The party stops.
  
  When pigs come.

• Tell me, can you see
  through the shards of
  my broken skin--
  please say you can't
  because I
  don't think I can stand
  to disappear again.

from p.4 on Mon., March 16th

Expressions failing me
tonight, I sit silent
wondering when the words will come and save me,
come and pull me up from under.

I am completely engulfed
by the knot in my stomach and the lump in my throat.

• The summer sun glares,
       a challenge for
             dirty parking lot snow.
  
  
  
  
• The pink blossoms
  falling from the
  tree
  
  growing from
  the stems.

from p.1 on Mon.,. March 16th

• Sweet, rotten smell of milk
  & baby powder.
  
  The heat intensifies and sweat
  builds up on both faces.
                                        Great...
  
  
  
  
• The sun reflected
  off of her emerald
  eyes.
  
  They made me as greedy
  as a gold-rush
  prospector.
  
  
  
  
• A domino effect of
  people breathing in
  
  letting it out with
  a deep sigh.
  
  Today's early risers
  want to sleep
  forever.

from p.1 on Mon., March 9th

• Darkness filled the
  space around me,
  anticipation giggles
  forced back down
       my throat
  until I was found,
       little pudgy happy face
  upturned ear to ear,
     greeted with the
        best of boos.
  
  
• I was alone
  
  
  
  
  and I was okay.
  
  
• I can still feel
  your arm wrapped
  around me each time
  I make eye contact
  with the moon
  on clear, doubtless
  nights.
  
  
• Your eyes blue as faded denim
  unforgettable
  also the color of my favorite
  pair of jeans.
  And like those jeans, you
  no longer fit.
  
  I grew.
  And you didn't.
  
  
  
• A rosebud of eccentricity
  bloomed toward noonday--
  her kisses a sunrise of
  strawberry-blonde imagination.

From p.4 on Mon., March 9th

• I feel like
  that crazy old lady,
  dressed in a neon snowsuit,
  doing an extreme snow plow
  down the side of the mountain.
  
  
• If you were a
  comic strip on the
  daily funnies,
  
  There would be
  a lot of wingbats
  and no quote bubble
  could hold your anger.
  
  
  
• cliff-bound huts,
  bulbous--
  an adam's apple
  trying to gulp
  sweat and angry fists
  clenched
  around crowded reeds.
  
  

from p.4 on Mon., Mar. 2nd

• A photograph is all it
  takes
  for the raging tide
  to flood my brain
  drowning the hope
  that kept me sane.

• We get lost
  & hold on to what could
  be anyone.
  You appear resolved.
  Only we will know.

• Young love is stupid
  love, it is
  unique.
  
  She told him to forget.
  He can't
  forget
  where she used to rest
  her head on
  his chest.
  
  Memories are the graves
  of good times left
  on the heart and a
  scar on the soul.

• As the salty ocean air runs
  through my hair,
  I laugh a little
  realizing that my life feels like
  a country song,
  sitting on the back of a pickup
  watching the sun rise.

from p.1 on Mon., Mar. 2nd

• The cold air
  bites the tip
  of my nose.
  
  Stiffening my
  fingers, making
  it harder to
  grasp.
  
  Missing the feel
  of your worn hand.

• My fingernails
  dig in nervously
  as I wait for news,
  for anything.
  
  They leave marks
  upon my desk but
  I will never scratch
  the surface of who
  you are.

• It was bold
  And she was scared,
  But she did it anyway.

• Sinking into
  silk
  
  wet white silk
  that has turned
  blue
  
  from all the tears
  that had fallen
  from the edges of
  her face.

from p.4 on an almost snow-day: Monday, Feb. 23rd

• Tear drops fall
  Into my oddly-colored smoothie
  And I can't find a way
  To meet her gaze.

• The cold wings
  of winter come,
  unfurled in majestic
  winds.
  The teeth gnash the
  dry ground,
  and the fiery breath
  of frost scorches the
  earth.

• We're all alone...
  Falling down stairs
  Slipping on ice--
  No one to catch us
  Unless we open our eyes
  And catch ourselves.

from p.1 on an almost snow-day: Monday, February 23rd

• The snow came down...
  
  Like feathers just floating
  in the air.
  The cold bitter wind
  wooshed back and forth
  and I stayed inside.

• Blanket burritos
  =
  Worry-free warmies

• Doesn't the newness wear off?
  
  When the pristine white canvas,
  which glitters,
  turns muddy and the watery
  ice crystals cling to your
  black boots,
  
  doesn't it?

from p.1 on Wed., 2/18

• The chill bit me
  and the ice crawled
  closer, closer
  to my window.
  
  There was nowhere
  
  
  trapped by the bitterness
  of something so beautiful.

• The grain of the wood runs
  up and down--left to
  right if you look at it from
  the side. Either way, the flow
  of it is rushing. There is
  a rock in the river--a
  gnarled knot redirecting.
  If someone were to stand the panel up,
  you wonder if it would all
  flow off.

• The thrones held
  our Royals--
  so chosen by their
  rose petal facades
  and heavy-metal
       extremities.

• There is more authenticity
       in the midnight kitchen
       floor,
  Than in any comforts of
       the warmest bed.

from p.4 on Wednesday, 2/18

• The pan is hot
  Hearing the sizzle
  This yellow mixture
  Somehow
  Turns to scrambled eggs.

• Restless adolescents
       with perfected pores
  and synthetic thoughts
       suffocate crowded halls.

• Rock hard cold pavement,
  The feeling of your fingertips,
  Stoned, icy eyes,
  The horrific crackling of the stereo.
  
  All encompassing the deafening ambiance you carry with you.

• X marks the spot,
  
  little did you know
  when you criss-crossed
  your heart,
  that made you a target,
  
  a treasure to be lost.

from p.4 on Monday, February 9th

• Condensation,
  the cold seat,
  a symptom
  of your stone-
  cold heart.
  
  
• 011010001011011101110110001
  
  code can break or
  not work
  so where does that leave me?
  
  Disconnected from
  everything.
  
  
• Warm weather--
  shorts and t-shirts
  leading you on
  thinking it's summer.
  
  It's just winter
  flirting like that
  girl you'll never get.

From p.1 on Mon., Feb. 9th

• Take your pocket knife and whittle
  your way into the center
  of the same tree--
  
  deeper with every summer afternoon--
  
  You keep expecting something
  new
  underneath.

• Dirty sunshine
  sprouts
  
  Making roses
  less believable.

• A soundtrack of laughter
  on a loop.
  
  A song made of mere
  moments and memories.

from p.4 on Mon., Jan. 26th

• Just as they had warned,
  the dark blue faded
  into the whites
  of his eyes.
  
  And I had never
  felt so pleasantly
  uncomfortable.

• The still,
  crystal clear, water,
  in my mind,
  
  became rampant
  with ripples,
  tides began to rise.

• Sharp words stab at
  the space between us
  but the space has
  been showing for
  so long
  they barely hurt.

From p.1 on Monday, January 26th

• I'd pull out every eyelash,
  if it meant each wish come true.
  And they good lord knows,
  they'd all be for you.

• The clouds must
  have had negative
  attraction, for they
  parted, letting light
  catch an edge on
  the white frosted
  ground, and paint
  the world golden.

• The sun has risen.
  The morning was among us.
  Just another Sunday.
  
  But in the morning
  it was as quiet
  as it could get
  
  like a computer
  without a speaker--
  a very peaceful morning.

• His hands are folded
  like paper tents on
  his desk.
  
  You can smell the
  spearmint on him.

from P.1 on Wed., Jan 21st

• Sinking into the
  crevice of brown
  fabric,
  
  Comfort
       Couch
            Coziness
                 Sickness.
• She wrote away
  her life in jigsaw-
  poems but cheap
  cardboard ends meet
  with jagged edges.
• The radio chirps on
  in the background
  as the screaming
  ensues.
  
  How did it get this far?
• The silence wraps
  around the dawn
  
  falling snow
  along the lawn
  
  
       it continues on.
  
  
  

from P.1 on Monday, January 12th

• The skritch-scratch of
  a pencil
       in a loom
  of
       only
            white
                 noise.

• As the canyons of my palms
   begin to flood,
  I only wish I could
  unspool the spaghetti
  of his brain,
  so somehow I could know
  what he sees
  in the hollow of my eyes.

• Spidering branches
  catch the wings of
  the mother's plummeting
  hope.
  
  It is the hardest part
  to watch.

• Your sober tongue
       forcibly caressing
       her drunk lips
  as my heart turns
  blue and breaks in
  half.

from P.4 on Monday, January 12th

• simplistic movements
  & messy thoughts
  make innocent events
          questionable.

• The darkness of the thought of never
  feeling his touch again--
  jolted--
  me back into
  the warm reality,
  where he waited to
  comfort the nightmare
  of loneliness and
  
  separation.

• I sit.
  I think.
  About you.
  
  Do you sit?
  And think about me?
  Too?