My intense intents indent the bubbles
My intense intents indent the bubbles of possibles, at times a severe pop reports a part of the future is dropped, or its dilatory delivery retreats with reproach from my untimely approach, hissing away escapadely.
Read MoreFlower Girl
Poems are hard to create they live, then die, walk alone in tears, resurrect in family mausoleums. They walk with you alone in ghostly patterns, memories they deliver feeling unexpectedly through the open windows of strangers. Silk roses lie in a potted bowl memories seven days before Mother’s Day. Soak those tears, patience is the poetry of love. Plant your memories, your seeds, your passion, once a year, maybe twice. Jesus knows we all need more then a vase filled with silk flowers, poems on paper from a poet sacred, the mystery, the love of a caretaker− multicolored silk flowers in a...
Read Moremy partner sneaks me sunshine while the doctors look away
and I pocket the little rays in my gurney while they perform sonic echoes of my heart and the lines rise and fall and rise and fall. There’s abnormalities banging around in my chest; raccoons in the wall, feverously knocking, then pausing, waiting for me to catch another breath. But my partner sings through tears, her hazel eyes a constant throughout these tumultuous times spent monopolizing my care from hospital to hospital around the Greater Boston area. If Uber rides could talk they would erupt with chimes of laughter through failed insulin pods, windmilling, blurring together like the...
Read MoreThe Mathematics of Love
0+1, 1+1, 1+2, ad infinitum. 5 is where my understanding fades. Ah, Fibonacci, I wear sequins when I try to make sense of your sequences; nautilus shells and horny rabbits. Mona Lisa and the recipe for Mr. Coffee— 1-2 tablespoons of Bustelo for every 6 ounces of water are based on your formulae. When I eat spanakopita at the Nautilus Diner, I devour your golden triangle. You would think my favorite number would be 55, but it is 69, the number my sister and I shouted at the dinner table even before we knew what it meant. I don’t think our parents ever got it or did it, I never did it,...
Read MoreWhat a Parasite Would Say
“I know now what I can offer you that no one else can: complete and utter dependence!” – Homer Simpson My hostess, home, how often I’ve thought of hemiparasitism and passed. Mistletoe can perform photosynthesis if it wants, but I work smarter than hard and the name belies me. I blame the haustorium. It was so easy to grow into you that I cannot now imagine how I’d begin to grow out. And what with the nutrients, I couldn’t imagine wanting to. I’m a blight, not a bulldozer. Do you need all those branches? I spare my leaves and berries for...
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