The Beginnings Of My First Anthology (!!!)

I have begun serious work on my first poetry anthology, scheduled to be released this summer! Scouring over almost 300 poems is no easy task :/ I know what my favorites are, but condensing them down to an appropriate chunk is proving difficult, not to mention the work of spit-shining them for publication. Blahhh. But […]

Day 323 – Prince

Prince, you’d better keep your distance
for the sake of my babies and me.

We are blind towards you
but can feel your groping arms,

we don’t hear your steps
but we are primed to claw you down.

Ghost, we don’t deny that you are there,
but we wake in heated nights
and talk amongst ourselves,
to calm the nervous inklings
that you’re not.

Oh God, if you’re not really there
I’m nothing but a fool,
to refuse a plate that
no one was bringing to me.

Prince, do whatever you want, I guess,
but promise you don’t exist.

Day 322 – Young Poetry

So honest, so direct,
so ambitiously penned,
so irrevocably bad.

I’ll find an old scrap of paper,
feel the wash of expired passion,
cringe at what I was trying to say,
and die a little inside.

There’s a place for all my young poetry,
there’s a basket I’ve labeled just so
for the words I fought for the right to express
that should’ve passed out of mind.

Yet sometimes I think of my numbered years
and whether they will bring enough growth
to keep me grimacing, enough to keep
me marching humbly on.

Day 321 – Love Song For A Bearded Barista

He writes love on my cup,
he who dares to feed
the corporate machine
which fuels a nation
with dark roast.

He brews the heat in me,
whom minimum wage is
excuse for gauges,
reason to let his tats
breathe free.

And he will not be caught,
no net for a wild mane;
his beard remains
unfettered and majestic
through his shift.

Oh that he were drawn
to covert rebellion,
this sweet little hellion
who would never be found out
in a coffee house,

whose charms are inside-out
but is most inclined
to stand in line
week to week, cup by cup,
sip by sip.

Day 320 – Chocolate Wine

The far-reaching genius of some bold entrepreneur
cattle-stomped by three cocky amateurs-

Sir, we’ve been through enough,
mosquito, moscato,
tell us please where you stomp your Hershey bars.

Have you packed our tickets to dreamland
behind each label, silver foil
around the cork, around our tongues
which taste the spoil?

Will you give us bubble gum instead
so we can buy it nonetheless
and say that it is awful, what you do?

I don’t think you should give up.

Day 319 – Switchblade

I just don’t have any princess in me;
the gentlest of souls who think of earning my grace
are going about it all wrong.

I know the books scream at me I wanna be saved
but I’ve already saved myself.
And what has anyone better than that
to offer?

I don’t want
a prize
for second
place.

Beat me bad if you can, I wish
somebody would.

And I want to place my hand
in every sweet boy’s and drop
a switchblade, “tag, you’re it”
and bolt

and know that one
will catch me
and cut.

Day 318 – When That’ll Be…

To every thing there is a season,
a time for mourning and a time for peace
and then something in between.

There is a time for nothing
and it’s everything all at once,
struggling with all the past
with the future on hold.

I live looking over a precipice
and I’ll get no parachute
’til I muster the courage
or the desolation to fall.

And when that’ll be,
oh when that’ll be…

Day 317 – What I Was Cryin’ For

It must’ve been cold fish lips
and a slamming door.

I must’ve really missed leaving voicemails
for choice males who couldn’t pick up,
men with smoking habits and nightmares,
dirty socks they couldn’t pick up.

It must’ve been the bruising I was lost without,
the strangulating futures that we talked about
the end of all my freedom that I railed against,
the work to solve a puzzle that just didn’t make sense.

It must’ve been the lying and the screaming quiet,
my therapy bills and my pain pill diet,
the disgust and the sorrow for the way we were.
It took so long to leave that by now I’m sure

it must’ve been cold fish lips
and a slamming door;
they must’ve been the things
that I was cryin’ for.