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.