Miss You

You can cry if it makes you feel better
But I wish it were on my shoulders
Remember just behind your eyelids
Is a world of fairies 
And kings 
And queens
And time
That time
Keeps moving and walks foreword 
Shaking sound trees
Creating trust-fall circles
And pushing foreword with romantic
Playful text
I remember seeing you there
Atop a bird's nest
Crawling on seat-backs
Ripping my clothes off
And laughing your way through thick smoke
And forest soundscapes
Come back
Meet me here
We'll praise the sun salutations
And play
Play behind your eyes
When they stop crying 
And you meet me
In a Midsummer 
Night's Dream.

Storms

(For Tom Pace)


I plan to meet him on my porch during storms when someday he is gone.



We'll drink coffee at night and watch the West stay wild in the sky.



I'll throw my arm around his shoulders and together we'll write redneck haikus - each of them ending in "I suppose" or "Well, anyway."



And one day when I'm gone, we will slowly rock on the same swing, on the same porch, under the same lightning. And there will be no time. And our storms won't have to end.

As I Watch You Slowly

Just how necessary are my polite apologies? 
My jaw is tired from keeping the peace
And some days I'm just not sorry. 

You have no idea how to leave
Your daddy in the bedroom 
And there just isn't a place for him 
In the living room.

As I watch you slowly 
Take off you're disrespect for me
Because you're a gentleman, right? 

I have learned the 
Thick throbbing uncut 
Hard way 
That it isn't just a vagina
That makes you a whore
I am a whore because I am entered
You are young and viral 
Because you enter 
It is he who enters
That is free
Not me. 

Pace

I can either yell at the moon
Every night
For always being
Out of reach
Or
I can enjoy the view. 

Sarah (Something)

I sit

Watching 

Holding something tight in my folded

Laced fingers

Holding a prayer, perhaps

Most likely

But also something silent and explosive

I listen through the window

To a world that cackles

And scoffs

Until it is hoarse

At the idea that somehow

There is still a chance for something classic

And beautiful

To exist

Not something tacky or vintage

Not something clichéd or overdone

But something precious and timeless

Sits graciously with patience

Inside my praying hands

And I hold my fingers loose

So as not to 

Crush it