Sweet Life

Caramel sutra. Or if you prefer, the sprinkle of cinnamon and salt.
I could build a igloo from the ice blocks sweating in the glass.
Its curved roof would explain something about where I am from.

People swarm around like fish, nibble the tips of my ears, the edges
of my toes. I am not for taking home, flakes of me. Translucent.
Next, I’ll be feeding me to the ducks like gravel, the necessity

of clam shells. Once I woke up after the black sand belt
and found myself picking glass from my cherried knees.
True, the sun folds itself off the water without harming

the blue but there are different kinds of burning. Not to say
I’m fierce but you might want to construct a pinhole
if you’re going to look at me that long.

When you ask me who I am, I say read this poem.
It’s okay that you don’t understand it.
Or if you do, bring your mouth, your needle.

Sew the open shut.
Bind the hems of my fingers to the seam of your lips.
There will be time later for talking, after the melt.

~

Scrawled Notes

Image taken with iphone.
Words written at Crema with a Caramel Sutra Latte.
Ears On Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
Time Taken five minutes.
Brain On tonight I read at Powell’s. Free book giveaways. A million and six other things.

About Me  

With this Blue Dress

Never is a long time to be married.
Never is a long time between love.
Never is lot of nonsense of who knows what
and for how long.
Never is the word that falls from the tongue
like the most perfect candy, long before
you are ready to let go its sweet globe.
Never is how long it takes for my dress
to leave me.
Never is how long it takes for me to
put it back on.
Here is never, stretched across these
sheets, crumpled paper and bedposts.

I never wanted never with you.
But always. The word stitched
upside down on the inside of my wrist
like a lasso, an antidote, a wellspring
of want.

Bury me not in red, but in blue.
Sky high. River deep. Rushing
until the breath leaves me
empty but for the seams.

~

Scrawled Notes

Image taken with iphone outside.
Words written while back home. Huzzah.
Ears On Grizzly Bear
Time Taken three minutes. power poem!
Brain On this weekend’s trip to Portland.

About Me  

On Said Hotel Bed

The sheets are always white and I only brought red pens.
Let the damage begin. A demangling of sorts, the kind that
(hello, my name is ursula and i will do my best to keep your room
to the standards to which you are accustomed) is probably
all sorts of used to. She probably doesn’t even care that
I howl like a black dog’s shadow every time my legs open.
There is ice by the gallon but I haven’t drank since
that night in the snowbank with the wild green moths.
I want to remember what home tastes like — something
about soft stones and the edges of moss — but it’s been
too long. I lick and lick the chocolate wrappers only
to find I’ve muddied the sheets with the tips of my dreams.

~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image taken with iphone on the big, big hotel bed.
Words written while on said hotel bed.
Ears On the man of my dreams, typing.
Time Taken four minutes.
Brain On returning to the U.S. tomorrow.

About Me  

The Way We Used to Dance

There was sunset. There was always sunset somewhere. Or rose-tinted glass bottoms, revealed by a final swallow. And music.

Someone knew how to start bonfires like a boyscout.
Some matchstrikes and a bit of heavy breathing.
I smoked back then, tendrils of stupid coming
from my mouth. Constellations lit the sky
and spelled our future in their heels.

That was a long ago. And last night.
I don’t remember how to get dizzy anymore.
How to fall down drunk, laughing, not drunk.
How to find your hand in the long darkness that
arrives without an invitation.
How to see what’s good in the flickering shadows.

I know it’s okay that we’ve moved on.
I know it’s okay that your mother never really liked me.
I know it’s okay that you’re getting married
to someone else soon.
I know it’s okay that you still love me.
And I you.

I know it’s okay.
And still, that moment the music
comes on and my feet make that first step,
I want your hand in mine, that spinning dip and twirl
of the stars coming home.
~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image taken with iphone at the dunes in Toronto.
Words written while waiting for a ride to the next hotel.
Ears On the loop of towels in the dryer.
Time Taken a couple of minutes through the hourglass.
Brain On the fact that GEEK LOVE made its Kickstarter goal! I’m so excited I can barely sit still!

About Me  

swords hidden in a tea-length dress

they don’t let you on the plane with that piece of steel
between your legs
you’re a dangerous girl showing your knees
misdirection at the height of the sky

somebody’s got a baby and you know seven ways
to keep it quiet
rice nipples drugs rattle killing
the other two you’ve never tried

if there are angel faces then yours is something
sweeter sugar you make my teeth ache
just to look at you
but don’t play me

i see you standing
demure ankles fingers itching from bad blood
all that lace cuts like fine shards
that sharpened tongue like
grains of time through sand.

~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image taken with iphone
Words today’s title came from Karen Rigby’s poem, “Lovers in Anime.”
Ears On the silence of a friend’s basement, where I’m staying.
Time Taken unknown.
Brain On how I said that I wouldn’t do the daily poem while I was on the Convention Tour, but really, I miss being creative. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do something every day until I return home, but I at least want the option to slip away for a few minutes and write.

About Me  

This beautiful bit of artwork was done by Michael Startzman, based on the Body of Work poem from August 5th. Which is pretty fantastic — not just because I love what he created, but because that particular poem (and title) was based on another piece of art that was hanging at the coffee shop. And we come full circle.

Speaking of full circle, I am really missing my daily hit of quick poetry writing while I’m on the road. Perhaps I’ll find time to return to it sooner than I expected. My fingers are getting itchy…

~

I’m off on a whirl-windy three-week convention circuit with way too much to do and way too little Internet access. I’ll return on September 4th. You can keep up with my doings on my social media sites, of course, while I’m away.

Back soon!

Kiss kiss bang bang, s.

~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

(And it will be September 4th before I return. Wow.)

signs

the dog and I are the only ones
who know what’s coming
she’s got bat ears winged forward
while the tornado
whistles against the wheat

the oaks sing choir songs
green-leaved hallelujahs
spiders leave their posts
for higher ground
tomorrow the trees
will be strung with
desiccated love

watch the scuttle of sharp tongued
creatures beneath the bones
of the soil
ask the blackbirds why
they have stopped to crow
ask the marmot or the mongoose
if the stars are eggs
where you began

there are things the dead
want you to write down
it’s time to sit your ass
in the chair and be done
with what matters

~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image of art in Jewel Box. I can’t find the author’s name, sadly.
Words fast-fast-fast.
Ears On Home. The song, not the place.
Time Taken five minutes.
Brain On so much to do, so little time.

~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image of books as found on the bookshelf.
Words not written.
Ears On traffic, mostly.
Time Taken one minute.
Brain On getting ready to travel. Again.

The harlots are dead in the street. Wrapped in
shrouds of pomegranate seeds and strings of

bloodied beads. The gods are busy pissing
in the gutters. No one wants a day-old

foot. Only one madame remains. She holds
a mouth that says, “What? You can’t imagine

death and sex in the same body? We’re all
dead fucked.” Everything makes us

uncomfortable these days. Have you stopped
reading this yet? Does this word make

your palm itch, the vein in your neck thrum?
Turn away. You can. Or you can read it again,

sitting so still and silent the haters
will begin to believe you are dead.
~

It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image of my tart slip.
Words written at Umbria coffee.
Ears On ..really, don’t ask. Some people are very loud.
Time Taken six minutes?
Brain On sweet and sour. And writing. And good couches.