—WE COULD WORRY ABOUT THOSE WHAT IF’S ‘TIL THE WORLD STOPS

…Have I told you how much I like babies?

…I’m trying not to take all this smoke hanging in the air personally.

…I don’t mind being alone, I just don’t want to be insignificant.

…There should be flowers every time you show up.

…Ppl who say please usually mean it.  I don’t think that necessarily makes them needy.  Usually they’re just being polite.

…It’s the best of times when everyone smiles.  I’ve said it before, but people should smile more, me included.

…Everything nice you say is just another way of saying you’re not my mother.

…I’m always going to let you have the last word, so go ahead. 

…Apparently, I’m doing just fine.  Who knew?

…I wish I felt more like I thought and less like how I feel.

…Sometimes I feel inappropriately calm, but then I realize how I’m feeling.

…There are some parts of my body that I care more about than others.

…Does anyone here want my demons?  I’m pretty sick of them.

… Recently I’ve begun closing my eyes in mid-sentence.  It’s a nice little break for both parties.  

…I recently ran into a lot of ppl who said the last 18 months have been dreadful for them and it’s shaken their lives.  I get that, but really?  It’s your life.  Do something with it.

…I’m pretty good at preaching, but not practicing what I preach.

…It’s been zero days since my last typo.

…Do you ever wonder how they get the baby oil out of the baby?

...Pete just flew by.  Thought you'd like to know.

…Someone should really grab that blind man before he walks out into traffic.

“I knew I was different, I had these mind flights that other people didn’t seem to have. And I had deep depressions.”  --Margot Kidder

"I am very proud of you, Sylvia. I love telling your story. Someone remarked to me after reading your poem in the Atlantic, 'How intense.' Sometime write me a little poem that isn’t intense. A lamp turned too high might shatter its chimney."--Olive Higgins Prouty to Sylvia Plath (March 29, 1957)

…We should all strive to keep it together as long as we can.

 …Wow.  This has kind of gotten out of hand.

…Someone told me we all have mental disorders.  They might have been right about that.

…“I’ve got sixteen days, sixteen of those are nights…”  

…“Strike one and strike two, I guess we’re both out.”

…I wonder how long you’ll keep reading this before thinking I’m totally full of shit.

--I STARTED A JOKE, THAT STARTED THE WHOLE WORLD LAUGHING

Osito

          for Katherine

Osito, yes,

it’s true,

you are small,

so curious,

stuck in

wide-eyed wonder

with open arms

and mitts,

but Osito,

your voice

is a strength,

is a sonnet

is a strong wind

the trees lean into

in order to

hear your story,

the one about the

woman who lost a boy,

though on some evenings,

like this one,

he still comes round,

a jangle of joy,

his ghost wearing

that familiar grin,

playing his strings,

sweet music only

the night can gather.

Skin Music

I sample

the music on

your skin,

each impression

and sonic groove

dappled in the

sweetest sweat,

the generous texture

and timber an echo

I’ve missed so much.

Your sure kiss is a

chorus on repeat,

a punched up crescendo,

hair like downy cotton falling away,

air spiced like saffron,

everything either

electric or acoustic,

what does it matter

now that we’re here?

On the other side

of your skin,

light through the window

lays lattice tracks

on your back,

your spine, the one

stuck up bone down there

waving a white

flag of surrender

that says

Enter With Caution,

but Enter please,

and Hurry.

The Night We Met Again

The night we met again,

it rained, soaked, poured,

and it was not even evening,

though it felt like it,

the rocky corners of a bruised car,

of new skin, a day

broken open by possibilities,

a first touch, a long look,

hope stuffed inside

those clouds that stared

down on us

without any questions,

a frantic race

of time,

of pulse,

of nervous ticks,

building like thunderheads themselves,

wondering what’s coming next

and why it took so long.

Requiem

Where does anything start?

Head full of rain,

empty canyon

inside a chest,

so that even echoes squelch themselves.  

Where does anything end?

Teeth chattering on a platter,

nails in the eardrums,

waiting at a bus stop with no direction home.

Where does anything (…)

Eyes plucked,

heart a strangled bird,

blood smeared on every unsent page.