Did the NRA really just call the mentally ill “evil,” and assume that all “sane” people are “good?” Really? Continue reading
Monthly Archives: December 2012
poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Day 108 of 35
Persephone Buried, she lost sight of the surface and forgot the horizon. After a time, she stopped standing in the narrow tunnels, hoping for a cusp of light. She took her lovers without the promise of morning. Dark and full of fleeting want, she plucked them only for memory and let them fade, and when … Continue reading
poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Day 106 of 35
He asks for a secret. I tell him there is a quiet scar on my left forearm from an iron I shouldn’t have touched and a small freckle on my bottom lip that I drag beneath my teeth whenever I worry. Continue reading
Day 105 of 35
All I really want to do is crawl back under yesterday’s blanket. Continue reading
poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing
Day 102 of 35
Beautiful Cassandra, I’m going to ask you not to look at the myth— no matter how they tell it, it doesn’t end well for you. Mute prophecy a moment. The history of birdsong is also yours. Remember, it was a heron, not a god, that made sense of chaos. Let its cadence sway you now … Continue reading
Day 101 of 35
If you ever lived in a desert as a child you know that every so often you miss it. Not for its expanse of night sky, the way the stars never surrender to the dark while you lay on the hood of your grandmother’s Impala, and not for the lizards you hunted with your sister … Continue reading
Day 100 of 35
Continued from Day 99 of 35: He took them apart, stripped them to their gears, cleaned and reassembled, and still, the ornate French mantel clock and the cuckoo were a millisecond apart, and the Grandfather was always a full tick-tock behind—its chime the last to announce the passing hour. I came home once and slept … Continue reading
Day 99 of 35
I left home at 17, and my father took to filling the house with clocks that he could never synchronize. Continue reading
Day 98 of 35
Lips blue, voice thinned, she tells me she misses earthquakes and the lover who left her in this dark Missouri wood. Continue reading
Day 97 of 35
still nothing Continue reading
Untempered Glass 