the turning over

it's the fear of the thoughts that might come walking alone
but arriving joyful.

it's the forgetting you were yearning for purpose
in the time that you have found it.

it's the feeling invisible
then having calls for help returned.

it's what turns over when I forget I am waiting
and yet- how to forget?

Should I?

It's this when the sense of progress is only hair

when what will i become

is hair what will i become.

One becomes quite quickly, one sees the view

in Santa Fe one learns to write one picks a dress one

sees the view in Jersey City one has

so many haircuts in just one life it becomes

everything it's awful to read

the news or to think of a neighbor

who is less happy and find the thought

unfinished, filled with hair, with hair-what-ifs

with nothing, that is, nothing. 

Broken Records

cardboard glue
  feathers glass to bone white paper
pearl wood
wax is paint ink

fire if gold

somebody gray
black you.

Stainless

Fridge static cat hair dried juice 
can't hold a magnet.
I don't read my history as
someone who remembered me on their holiday,
just as the crust of milk drops,
that I swore I'd wipe yesterday
and that I will for weeks to come.

For sun and moon and radio

third of three

sunny outside
but no one is fooled
it's cold outside
so you stay inside
all day long
and time passes by
too quickly
when you woke up at 9
and had all these plans
and tasks to complete today
even started to get dressed
but instead did nothing
and now it's almost time for bed

JUST NOTES

Escorted life where I

feel brave just for

not feeling afraid –

that stagnant still water,

sky and ground

the color of

each other,

beautiful as a

subsurface:

sure, plum lipstick

and a black, sheer shirt

red nails peel back

green onions turn black

take advantage

of the empty

house