I am.I am.I am.

Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels, I swear by the miracle-working icon, And by the fire and smoke of our nights: I will never come back to you.

Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

I’m a poet, the people I love will always be somewhere else.

The taste of my own fingers in my mouth sitting on the tile floor in the bathroom all dirty teeshirt and unwashed hair all no pants, shower running until it’s cold I love you like the bitterness of iron like the smell of something leaking under the sink miss the feeling of you inside like i was so much light, so much bursting at the seams How is wanting you dirty? If you walk away now, well the dust will settle, everything rusts

I am thinking about the crescent scar on the roof of his mouth that he got when he fell with a straw between his teeth and how it felt to run my tongue over it. How it felt to taste the moon. If love is anything tangible, it is his mouth, his mouth, his holy god damned mouth. He says my name and the whole sky is talking.

thIS WHOLE FUCKING ARTICLE

Bad poem has no curfew. Stays out until the crows start cawing. Sleeps in the flower beds with the squirrels.   Yawns itself awake by sunset. Says no to the broccoli on its plate.   Bad poem like yesterday’s clothes and last week’s leftovers. Bad poem like messy pasta and shredded cheese.   Bad poem like skipped meals and missed appointments. Bad poem like egg yolk.   Bad poem knows how to kick and how to scream. Knows the rules of the road but doesn’t follow them. Bad poem says, “I know you are but what am I?” Bad poem leaves cracks in your windshield.   Bad poem like bad dancer. Stringy limbs   and no rhythm. Bad poem cuts corners and doesn’t plan. Leaves abruptly and then stumbles in to say, “It won’t happen again.” Bad poem says, “I’m sorry”.   Bad poem weeps. Bad poem with a hangover. Bad poem as a good listener. Bad poem always has a shoulder to cry on. Bad poem opens another bottle of wine. Bad poem is lonely. Bad poem sleeps naked.   Bad poem remembers all the details. Gives  birth to a thousand baby poems. Names them all “you”. Colors every eye green. Bad poem as bad mother. Neglects the other children. Bad poem plays favorites.

The point of cursive writing