I trust you. The story you and your buddies

created at the Helsinki Beer Festival has potential.

Not that anyone would care about 1985, but it’s easy

to swallow our girl meets boy juice; 17 year-old

lips lighting up like fireflies over the bristled edge

of a car window rolled all the way down. In Kansas.

At sunset. At a Drive-In. At exactly the same place

on the planet at exactly the perfect time.

I trust you tell it right.

One Word Challenge

black spot

it’s hard to believe we’re alive, when we’re dying.

my brain says, it was debased sex.


a Police concert serenades my winery.


i admit i crave chaos.

you remember me

for getting angry at you for buying bubbly

for your ex. the bass guitarist rocks–

and this is how it is for now. there is

no way around it — you — under my skin.

me — always tied to you in all the shit

hole places along the unchaste belt of

interstate 5. gas is over 6 dollars a gallon.

what the fuck is this anyway? what. the actual.

fuck. i’m a thousand miles from anywhere.

Me & my dead mother

My mother is dead inside. And I’ve been in mourning ever since.

I sat at her feet in the bathroom, while she passed a brother or sister of mine in blood through her legs into the toilet.

I’m sorry. She says it was the kindest thing she ever heard.

But ever since, I felt a cold, hard, and an unfeeling kernel in my heart. And so, as she still lives, I daily kill the memory of this puncture wound.

There is this hole. I’m sorry. She and I sit on the edge of bathtubs. Silently, I destroy all life, until all I’m capable of receiving is this dull, psychic pain. Hatred is as impossible as love.

The absence of all meaningful reference points cannot be too strongly emphasized.

This is why I am only too fascinated with mortuaries in the prime of my life. It’s an untenable situation. I’m sorry. For you. Or anyone else, in love with their mothers.

A hot castration complex is what I have to hold. Somehow, all because of my dead, depressed mother who becomes me.


roasting garlic in a pan of butter tends to make me think everything will be okay. you strip the green vegies. i drink the white wine. we are marinating. or tenderizing. i’m somewhat confused about this recipe.

i concede about two ovens though. sometimes you want what you want.

i apologize for ever saying you were a food snob. i can be acerbic, but i can also choose to be unsalty. too much salt was always your concern in the kitchen. too much can’t be taken back.

NaPoWriMo 8