It's 9am, and the day is already over. 

What's happening tomorrow?

(Rather than post a complete poem, I might experiment with posting pieces of poems as they come to me. I might also go and find some older poems I haven't posted. Happy New Year!)

“LIFE IS SHORT. THANK YOU ANCESTORS.”

You know what I’d kill for?

A primitive Italian Madonna and Child.

In the meantime, I made my own:

2 gold leaf arches to frame my mother (dead)

and my daughter (bad girl)

2 strong women framing

me (little mouse)

between them – 

Where do you come from?

Worried people. The land.

Where do you want to go?

Pink potatoes. Apple core under

the driver’s seat.

Somewhere safe

where they will have me. 

HAPPINESS

Health/money/business/love

rainbow candle from LA,

once it’s lit you’re not supposed to blow it out

but I just made a deal each time:

little death wish

little hope chest

the quilt was made of patches

stuffed with pantyhose

our boyfriends were bad,

we needed to hide or run to the woods

arms spilling with animal babies

the Broadway thrift stores smelled like lotion

we discovered stretch and mesh

and 80s radio, mocha dregs in the bottom

of a holiday paper cup,

heater headache

hours and hours of

particle happiness

lost,

lost is a thing

you built yourself

branches that were papers

taped to the wall

then trashed

what kind of thing are you

to love

does it feel like a pin prick

a leaf caught in hair

is it ever assault  

cold water

clean --

NEVER BE SORRY

The easiest face

to draw

two lines, dots, then hair

again and again

like wall paper

smile to break

the room

a flower trapped in tape

old burger place your dad

used to take you to

never be sorry

PLEASE

because I wanted a fresh slap, a cut lined with honey that might stick to the walls as you passed them, maybe I’m looking to secure these certain germs myself, gestural promise that a wind that smells like coriander destiny isn’t all it will take to carry you off to the rich, green valley where the women are robust and lunch is a circle and I’m not invited or noticed or real

FIRST DEATH

When the matriarchs die

we pray that the neutral Gods

of clean lines, no centering

will step aside, swap out for their

rambunctious, aromatic alter egos

the un-hushed – 

old hospitality

parting gifts of

fish and flowers

(plus color)

let us sleep knowing

that everyone has

tried