la push

the writer's curse

i'm a comedian,
and a runner,
wendy to fraternity lost boys.
my poems get published
and half-acquaintances admit with bourbon breath
how they wish we'd be friends.
a semi-okay baker,
a willing sugar mama,
and the best damn dancer you've ever swayed with.
but i fear it's not enough.

a year.
two cities
constant company & dinners for one.
during happy hours you'll step aside
to take my calls
hand in pocket, tie loosened
interjecting with "mhms"
while you watch the girl from HR
tilt back her beer and laugh.









as much as she knows she's beautiful
and intelligent
and has the power to love
a woman with a pen also knows the writer's curse:
we can see every possible ending.

driftwood spittle

empty like driftwood
i have shape but no weight.
drag me from the dribbling stream, friend
and lay me out to dry;
i'll be fine, i promise.

milky eyelids peel back to review the demure sky
in all its bashful silence.
like slipping clouds,
i realize,
some lie awake on pebbled shores
waiting for age to bring satisfaction.

refusal. ambition.
my back lifts off the sandy bank & i stand to face you.

do not let me grow old and stiff
sucking on spittle instead of lips.
let me roam where i'm called;
and if it's with you,
do not question the journey.