It’s the (Dead) End of the World as We Know It

We have a way of constantly falling
in love, out of love, off of cliffs, into

the great abyss. We crave the great
ebony nothing like a drug, shrug our

shoulders at the slight pauses, the
subordinate clauses, the effects and

causes of synergy and silence. Give
us curve of cul-de-sac, the cracking

open of a new vein. The stain and spill
and flow of a tributary undammed. Will

we find ourselves in these ending
places? Shuffle your feet to the end

of the darkest street. Feel the curb
find its way into your skin. Begin

the knowing of breaking bricks,
scattering straw and sticks to

……………make room for breath.



Prompted by Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge, day 30



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Sky song for a Friday afternoon


Blue is held
in heart and chest,
stirred by significant
breeze, contemplated
by clouds. We shroud
ourselves in
-digo proud, believe
……………… blur.


Prompted by Toads



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Feeling Like I Could Breathe Again


I remember standing on a lawn and watching bats fly out of our attic. I was 3.

I remember the little red rims the cinnamon Santa eyes would leave behind when we ate them off of all Gram’s cookies. When Hershey bars came in a real foil sleeve, and the pleasure of breaking off a perfect rectangle. Blackberry stained hands and the scent of mom’s piecrust. Sprinkling cinnamon and sugar on the remnants, and baking them into delicious bites.

I remember the beautiful blurred world from the top of a horse at full speed. AquaNet fog fugue on cheer trips. The feel of the vinyl seats in my puke-green Gran Torino. The scent of Drakkar becoming the scent of heartbreak.

I remember waiting for him to come home, knowing it was the beginning of the end. The day the smell of smoke started bothering me again. The realization that maybe, after 2 months without him, my lungs – and heart – might finally be clean. I remember selling his (personalized) Bible at a garage sale for $1. With relish.

I remember the first time you touched my arm.


Prompted by NaPoWriMo, day 29

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gone girl. gong girl, high
on king kong girl, smack
that plane right outta the

wrong, girl.

too long,
girl. don’t just run,
girl. fly.



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Showing Up on the First Day in Two Different Shoes


The automatic coffee maker does its job
that morning. The alarm clock, notsomuch.

Now in a rush, I carefully choose clothes
that say I am a responsible adult, a dependable,
reliable soul who will certainly be a major
asset to this here establishment, yessirree.

Make it through the first 3 meetings with a
smile, in style.Whew. Order lunch. Look down.

One black.
One blue.


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this poem is a happy hazard

it’s wearing both a caution sign, and a Ha
-kuna Matata t-shirt. it has flirted
with the idea of getting a tattoo,
but it can’t decide between the angel
wings or a skull. it’s all define me define me
but then it wants to live outside the box. wants
to throw away the box. wants to run over the
box with a Mack truck. good luck

getting to know its center, as it is currently
covered in some sort of jam, and a periwinkle
scarf. it’s part flarf, part flammable. it’s
function is to fabricate unknownness. (what?)

this poem is the butt of every joke, the chalk
outline at a murder scene, the nearest far
-fegnugen this side of the north star. you’ll
(eventually) trip over it, as it’s the elephant
in the room, but then you might just ride
it from here to kingdom come (just watch
out for ant hills. and the collection of silver
thimbles in its trunk.)

this poem is easily flummoxed by the
scent of cheese. please do not disturb it
between the hours of 2 and 3. or sometimes,
3 and 4 (some days, it’s still on daylight
savings time.)
this poem might occasionally
rhyme on accident, but it’s never gonna
find its way to any sort of iambic order.
it wishes it were shorter, but it takes a
long time to say a thing when you can’t
find your index cards and have forgotten
the language of the trees. it sneezes

at least 17 times in a row, every time, and
we’re out of Kleenex. it’s being featured on the
next America’s Most Wanted and you might
also see its face on a milk carton from
time to time. it’s lost. it’s found. it’s ground
zero and patient zero and zero tolerance
and zebra striped. it’s wiped out even though
it just took a nice nap. it believes that
horizontal is a pile and vertical is a file, but
it can’t remember which way is up, or where
it put its Sunday shoes, so
some days it goes out dressed in nothing
but a





Prompted by Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge, day 29

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Telling it Slant (and Upside-down)

{The inevitable magnitude of hindsight.}



The Beginning. (That’s what it was.)
She, bereft.
He left.
She, depleted.
He cheated.
Her, a stranger.
His anger.
Got hitched with “I dos”
She did, too.
He did.
Became friends.
Boy greets girl.
Girl meets boy.
The End.



Today’s NaPoWriMo asks us to tell a story, backwards. This didn’t work the way I’d hoped, but perhaps it’ll do. That first/last line is certainly true. 

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