“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


september's end

autumn wakes me earlier than i wish it would.

september's end is crunchy underfoot, though still warm, the summer gone without a proper goodbye. i open the house to the morning light and streaks of cardinal, sounds of sparrow.  i feed the cat, turn on the sound of cellos. there are ballerinas on the television, twirling in silence. outside, a small autumn breeze tries its wings, learning to fly, whooshing small leaves from the trees. the sun is the color of what will be.

i am writing again, in tiny sentences, baby verses, scared of the truth, but owning nothing else.
trying my own wings again.  



where the sky falls in

the roof is just a frame for the holes that keep me cold in winter
hot in summer,
wet when drunk.
i prop the doors against the spaces that keep her out
but she shows up anyway and shouts through the cracks.

MY HOUSE my solitude my drunkenness my life.

it takes two 30 packs to lay me down to sleep
chased with xanax and hatred
and she thinks i care, just because she does
but i never have
never will never will
never will.

i shout back and call her names that hurt her heart, but not hard enough,
until she goes and lays down under her own damn sky.

i lay lonely under mine, just the way i like it,
and ain't nothing but darkness up there
nothing but nothing 
and jesus god i pray for even more of the same;
it can't get dark enough.

even when it scares me.


writing in the opposite gender.

perfect timing for this bit of truth.
i've been trying to see things from his side for a long time.