while I’m cleaning the bed of my pick-up.
I cross over. His breath smells whiskey sweet
but its only noon. His eyes are syrup.
He can’t stop speaking of Jenni. Too smug
to say something nice, so he says the same
old shit all over again. “It was drugs
or suicide, man, she just wasn’t sane.”
Later, I’m in my garage touching her
bike, my tools are still lying on the floor.
Its been two weeks since I called her number
to say the bike was fixed, and nothing more.
She didn’t answer because she was dead,
wide-eyed on the tile. This sticks in my head.
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of clouds and moons against the windowpane
and realizing thirst, realizing the dangerous
orange hum trickling across the carpet
from the little peeking woodstove window there
and all is so silent
that my heart just hurts
rolls against the clustered nerves of heaven
tucked up inside my head, and heaven being youth
and youth being long spent, receipts stacked
like watercolor paintings from third grade in a box
inside ol’ mom’s closet, collecting dust and ready to burn
when the house goes up in tinder flames 4 years
from now, but right now it is time for wondering where
this darkness comes from, and why it pulled the sheets
right off the couch, letting in cold air and doubt;
nobody needs the moonlight unless you’re
gonna cry or you’re in love, or you’re about to die
in your sleep but wake in time for a flash of blue
before the big dream starts, and all the fires in the world
dissolve and trickle back to their ashes in the dark shadows
cast by clouds and moons shuffling ever onward
to the next karma midnight awakening
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.