twenty feels the same
like each day before
my skin a little looser
but still too tight
dripping time down
into a stained mug
sipping bitter brown
and wishing I had
a juice box.

Today is my birthday, the end of my teenage years and the emergence into my 20s. These next 10 years should be interesting.


Cerebral Criminal 

Woke up in the morning
A hole in my head
Fell down the stairs and lost what’s left

Burned out the windows
Candles and smoke
Slept in the ocean
Forgot what it was I wanted to know

Ate dry corn flakes
Drank the sky
Saw celestial truths I knew I couldn’t deny

Watched the clock
Hid it under my thumb
Ran in the rain
Chased down by a life lived under the gun

Tore me out
Two hours in
I’m no Joan, but they’ve burned my skin

Pinhole Camera

Oatmeal tin
On the sidewalk 
And the photo paper within
Warps the shapes
Of negative vision
In black and white
Clear cut images
Of a twisted world
Burnt earth and sky
Against bent bricks
And broken bones
Sacrilegious scene
Between heaven and home

Love in Ten Lines Challenge

The incredibly talented and prolific blogger at Crumpled Paper Cranes was kind enough to invite me to join the “Love in Ten Lines” poetry challenge. The guidelines, for anyone else who would like to try are:

1. Write about love using only ten lines.
2. Use “love” in every line.
3. Each line can only be 4 words long (argh).
4. Nominate around ten others who would be interested in the challenge.
5. Let ’em know you nominated them.
6. Title the post “Love in Ten Lines.”
7. Include a quote ’bout love.

It seemed easy enough, but the restrictions were somewhat difficult to work with. Anyways, this is what I managed to put together:


In raindrops love falls,
Love in torrential sheets,
Plummeting, pouring, love pounds
Love into porous soil.

Love on heart-shaped balloons,
Hovering, love is heaviest
Bending, breaking love seizes.

Love above and under,
Love casting sunset shadows,
Blind, love is light.

1. The Accidental Poet
2. Simple Obsession
3. The New Word Mechanic
4. The Hut Owner Blog
5. Shane Douglas Keene
6. Bluechuckles
7. The Big House and Other Stories
8. Gabriel to Earth
9. Evolve Origin 2
10. In Noir Velvet

All of these blogs are wonderful and their authors have given me great insight and feedback on my own writing. I look forward to seeing the directions they take this challenge in.
Anyone can join in if they’d like though. If you come across this post and want to try it yourself I’d love to see what you write! Just comment with the link to your post.


Wind rolls over cotton coated hills,
Branches still bare, but begging to burst.
Beneath the shadow of a milky sun,
A pollen haze churns the Earth
And twists their hands together.


Forsythia first, pinprick yellow blooms,
Then inky crocus and pastel tulips.

Daisy chains and floral crowns,
With woven leaves and knotted stems,
Twisted into shackles on wrists.

Nooses around necks never were scented sweeter
Than when winter hung from green branches.


Shadows on the wall,
Where their cold hands couldn’t bear to touch
And in between these tangled hours
The eruptions of a narcoleptic lair.

Caught between the auger and the oak,
Sipping sunsets under cherry trees and feigning interest in world affairs.
Vague admonitions of distant gods
Who hovered with clenched fists or open palms.

Never really knowing if a gap in the teeth meant the same as a grin
Or if theirs was a high horse meant for the lipless.

Wandering mica breezes in solitude,
Silhouettes caught in storms of glittered dirt and littered rain
Watched it all crumble to ruin in the span of one thousand nights,
Contorted into a prospector’s hour
Spent counting dollars in thongs and gold on wrists.

Ticking down the thread
In beats per minute, on the face of a Rolex.

From the heat of a summer day spawned
The loins of a bursting frog and the eggs that sprayed backward,
Blurring black the green murk of the pond,
Enveloping puddles where muddy boots stomped
And umbrellas dropped.

Through sunlit lashes and weary thumbs,
They knew it all but never spoke a word of truth.


Three quarters left—
but not one was mine
Persimmons in November—
build a shrine

Ice on the Highway

Ice on the highway
A shroud of lace
Sliding on grey skin
Slipping out and over.

Life moves soft and subtle
Blurring into flashing lights
Counting fingers and feet
Between black and white.

Sinking in and seeing
There was no guarantee
The road rolls on
With no mind for the bumps beneath.


Snow coats tongues and hands that scrape,
Footsteps over ice and earth.

Passing through the barren branches of home,
The logs we used to climb across.

Slick and slumbering, nursing bruises from tumbling over,
Struck by the finality of it all.

The end of days looks so much like every day before,
But with a purple elbow and toothy grin.