on your Love of Bukowski

I think you like Bukowski

Because he's the kind of

Thick skinned

cunt-of-a-man

You've always wanted to be.

So, you shape your poems

In ways

that fit his forms.

& you

Force

that same bitter &

Hardened nonchalance

To fall with crushing weight

from your tongue.

You're so full of

Those razor blade words

That seem to

sharpen your wit

& drive the point home

Straight to the heart

of the matter

& cleanly through the hearts

of anyone foolish enough

To get too close

So go on.

Knives out &

Bluebird in...

you're very

nearly there. At this pace

You'll become that bastard

in another verse or two.

fingers

my humming fingers

wake & break  

the morning silence

melodically drumming

against my coffee cup

or pouring my heart

onto a blank page

while they’re

wrapped, passionately

embracing a pen

instead of the tremulous

strumming they’d make

singing out a

symphonic climax

across the continent

of your skin

oh, yes. my fingers

are awake & pressed

against the keys

that pay the bills

still sometimes longing

spills out of them

composing prose

instead of data entry

all in a day’s worth

of mindless work

to kill the time

but I always find

this, meaningless

the full power

& potential

of my fingers

is never realized

unless

somehow

they are reaching you.

ex girlfriend

I can recognize Love when I see it

(& I can recognize loathing)

just as well as you.

If her looks were lances,

surely they would cleanly pierce me through.

What kindness should I offer?

To the one who would lie in my bed

if she, now, had the key

to your current doorways.

No dear, do not begrudge me

for my lack of trusting

her ulterior intent.

She once came, and went

where her tides left you half-drowned

washed up, on lonely shores.

So forgive me,

I won’t ask you to distance her

if don’t expect me

to cherish her, anymore.

math (a poem about Love)

you’re afraid,

i think.

to admit that Love

amounts to more

of life,

than

all of the scrap

change, it has left

in your pockets.

you’ve got

your hands crammed

in deep.

clinging

to your last quarter

of hope, where

pennies in patience,

and a dimes

worth

of diligence

clang together

worthless &

unspent.

 your past

can be

 all summed up,

with

subtraction &

dividends

so many

complicated fractions.

i've never been

one for equations

myself

but i will share

a secret.

Love is an exponential

“X” factor

& multiplies in you

the moment

you give it away.



vibrant... (on turning 30)

It’s not that hard to reminisce

back to the time

when I thought 30 was old.

I hit that milestone today.

But, I am no longer afraid,

on the contrary

I feel immensely brave.

Strong. Capable. Steady.

ready to take on the world.

At 30, I am still a girl,

but now

I have got a lion living

underneath my ribs. The kind of lion

who roars & brings

mountains & oceans

into being.

at 30 I’m finally seeing

the forest for the trees.

 I am here.

standing at the threshold

of a decade that is

waiting to unfold

I will embrace these years

with Loving, open arms

not fading or growing old.

I am simply blooming

into a deeper,

lovelier shade

of life.

Yes, I am ready. To bid

a fond farewell to the darkness

of my naïve & reckless twenties.

Departing that rollercoaster

without looking back.

30 is the new 20

Vibrant is the new black.

valentines

Alone in bed
I'm folding
origami flowers,
Paper boxes,
Paper hearts.
Putting my Love
into little things
that are small enough
To ship to you.
How compact
can I make my
affections?
What forms can I
give my feelings
that will hold strong
for the journey,
But still retain
the same
tender beauty?
I'm alone in
my bed tonight
packaging these valentines
& you're in a distant city
Sharing poetry
with someone else.