76 – 100

ayudame

sometimes i need help

remembering where i am

who, for that matter

. . .

unfinished business:

i will do all that i can

to avoid it.

constance

rivers change course for

a reason, but see, son, an

ess is still an ess

dog ears and a cracked spine = loved.

I bought you a book

and scratched out the title.

you read into it.

well at least I didn't use abbreviations

'it would be easy,

just as, to talk in person,'

I text from my room.

that's not exactly what i meant

i spat on my arm

biking to meet you. wind put

a spin on my words.

cinnigmatic

you don't cook at all

or chew gum, yet you somehow

smell of cinnamon

this natural disaster

butterfly monsoon

i read all about you from

my quicksand armchair.

bare as the floor

this meal tastes of dust.

your shirt having, lost your smell.

i use now to sweep.

in days past I would have held your hand

present like drift wood.

sand gives to foot prints, waves take.

here, we should head back.

Now can I have your phone number?

I was charmed by you

before I knew your cat's names:

Ben Purr and Fish Tank

that one first kiss

a submarine dive

- couldn't have breathed if i tried -

sunlit resurface

why is it I never see you?

you moved to Georgetown.

well, shit, you might as well live

in Olympia

and I never write back

mi abluela sends me

paper planes flown over flames

coughed prayers to the air

gunpowder green

a tight wound leaf sinks

hot bath unfurls a steep sleep

floating in high heat

dear moon

i know you are up there

but thru the veil of soft clouds

sometimes i forget

a cavity's lament

I floss. Oh, but why?

to remind myself, it seems,

of the taste of blood.

strike (anyw)here

watch the blue spark flame

struggle to life, fantastic!

curled black burnt matchstick.

I love you #3

I don't want to eat

so much as to taste the words 'hey,

honey' off your lips.

I'm living fine (art) without you

I wouldn't bother

coming back. you're the source of

my inspiration.

untitled #5

you burst in, all flames

set to consume. 'Fuck,' i think,

having just drunk oil

frozen objections to being put in glass jars

expand to stillness

to the echo of crystals

then cold cold silence

flightless birds

why fly through the air?

legs get you there. And for food,

you dig in the dirt.

thank you for the thoughtful gift

I christened the whisk

you gave me on chowder that

took me an hour.

static-y reception

I am one of those

people who switch the station

during their pledge week.