The freckles on the right side of my face are darker because the sun has nibbled little love bites right out of it. The freckles on the right side of my face are darker because nobody walks in LA, and I am always the passenger. The sky never really races or paces over my left, and so it leaves no tracks. The freckles on the … Continue reading why why because because
Powdered sugar and painted light, I wish us all a warm-soul night. Painted dream, and powdered day, I wish us all a love-blessed way. Continue reading 30. boop
I took a page of Lizzie’s book today and, when stuck, borrowed a prompt from the Promptosaur. My prompt was about being an ambassador— if I became a household name, what types of products would I want to promote? I would not want to be a household name. There’s something about the echo of it, the telephone-game of it. One day, you step outside into … Continue reading 27. a thinkaloud
Every day, the citrus-light of morning squeezes itself through my window, pulp and all. When life gives you lemons, when life floods you with peelings and mournings, you learn to stockpile sweetness– or you learn to web your fingertips enough to hold on. Along the windows in my kitchen, I let a small flock of beloved tiny things sugar the frontlines. A miniature angel. A … Continue reading timed-write: lemon morn
Prompt: Fiction. Ghost Tomato. A Comedian On his last breath,on his last day alone,a tomato appearson his nightstand. He tittersoff the stage. How many people does it take to build a tomato? The hungry man dreams himself fed,imagines a radiant orange-redtomato on the street.It is sheer in direct sight,vanishes in the sunlight.Still a treat. And this is the core of every nostalgia I find him … Continue reading four fictional fruit
I made up this namebecause I needed more room. I live on the coastand rent is too highto spread my wingsand the ocean airis too full of lost thingsfor a lost thing like meto explore alone.I like the seagullthat comes to my window tosing down the alleyand bounce as her voiceechoes up into the sky. It is a hideous songby most measures,but I tap my … Continue reading Rara Avis
If I were to leave my body behind for the night, I wouldn’t go far. I would hover; wrap her in company. If the pain stayed with sinew, I would sing songs, full-bodied. I would float in them; fight to memorize. Maybe she would remember in the morning. If the pain stayed with me, I would still fold close. I would look at her resting, … Continue reading 100 / for the night
A poem cannot be a pigeon. It cannot be the wattled beak that cracks the stale bread, it cannot be the craning neck that whips the air. It cannot be the tail or toenail, crop, shield, or eye. Certainly not the watchful eye. A poem cannot see the stranger, in ultraviolet glory, take crumbs out of their pocket and shed feast over the small hungry … Continue reading a poem cannot be a pigeon.