well...

turns out my husband hates poetry. Huh.

well, 'spose that's why i have a blog.

is there is someone out there actually reading all this tripe i'm writing? Hello?

i guess i'd like to think, in the most narcissistic corner of my little heart that someone reads, and possibly doesn't even think it's all complete crap.

i'll probably keep up with this, at least until the blogger gods decide to destroy my little space here. even if the only person who gets anything out of it is myself.. and of course you, Katie.

Us

we hear
we buy tickets
we punch faces in faceless crowds
we feel the ink on our skin or the taste of metal and dust in our mouths
we are the yellow in the sunlight
we soak in smoke and sweat and sounds
we are the heat in waves
we race and stumble and fall
we sing
we dance
we link our arms and scream across steel barriers
we ravage and regale
we are loud
we are one
we bleed
we see our reflections in sunglasses
we touch and press
we breathe
we twist and jump and explode
we
we walk in the dusk
through the sweat and the mud
we sit in a dirty car
and we are completely in love

summer, stop teasing me

no one walks in straight lines
when the restless flutters of May
scratch soundtracks on their windows.

Amber

wearing shorts on the front porch
the tangerine glow of
this melancholy summer
lays in layers over
the unshadowed inches of our legs
the ghosts that live in photographs
have taken their red eyes and drunken smiles
out from under the bed
and into our hands

it is too early for acorns

we snatch the light as it falls
extracting the best lines
filling our notebooks with honey and cursive
her pages like peaches
heavy and sweet and bruisable
mine like plums in a saucer of milk

even the smallest leaf is someone's blanket

our hair creates curtains
as we curve over glue sticks and twine
attaching and trapping and tying bits down
the tree shadows descend from overhead
they wrestle and collide
in butterscotch and coffee patterns on our skin

the bees sing her favorite song

and so
we climb into the sticky tree sap puddles
smearing our cheeks and elbows
and and anticipate our petrification
for someone to uncover us
legs and necks and little toes
as priceless and pristine as we feel
in the golddustsed pages of our former selves