Wrap it up, man. Wrap. It. Up!
when the pointlessly joyous day FINALLY arrives.
when it’s been so dark.
when you recognize other ways you’ve been abusive.
when you are brave and cauterize the wound.
when it’s time to party!!!!
and do I have it in me?
when the swan bled.
Fought first. Fought again.
Then bled quietly away.
When I’ve been burning all year.
Hello gentle readers—
A bit of news: I had the honor of submitting a poetry manuscript to Driftwood Press’ Adrift Chapbook Contest this year, guest judged by thee Carl Phillips. Carl Phillips wrote one of my all-time favorite poems, The Swain’s Invitation; the idea that he might read some of my poetry, when I have long and lovingly read his, thrilled me to the bones.
I placed as a Top 10 finalist. I am so grateful for this opportunity and to have been read. Thank you, Driftwood Press.
Congratulations to the contest winner, Derek Annis, to my fellow finalists, and to all my fellow poets who entered.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.
With lots of love,
–K
Sometimes you gotta cry, baby.
I know. I know. It’s okay. I understand. You go on and cry. We all gotta cry sometimes. I love you.
We’re almost there.
We’re almost home.
When you are suspicious, and yet, …it is catchy. Damn it!
But that doesn’t relieve the tension of my mistrust. What is your deal?
… oh, hell. it’s not similarity, is it???
When he watches the movie for the first time,
and says, what. a. Psycho.
When your murky undulations epiphany—I don’t have to
say it like it’ll start a fight. cuz it won’t. he wants it, too.
(Your soft has a nestle here. You built it. Well. And he cheered all the while.)
In fact, he’s hungry for it.
That beautiful twinkling hunger he has
with the devouring undertow.
When unraveling keeps popping up.
when the satire is too rich
for my lilylivered self;
when I want more
of The Great, please; when Russian literature appears
—synchronicity—
When I want to press a button
so most forget me.
Just the ones I pick.
Just need space-quiet.
Just for a little while.
’til i’m ready.
Please?
when it’s the psychopathy of society
or the classical descent
into madness by the sea.
when We’re Here.
when her teeth are finally ship-shape.
When researching the look of Ereshkigal for familiarity.
when the closer is so lame.
when you’re on the road to Boise—
named from the relief of woodlined water
for travelers, for trappers crossing
the Snake, the year I was born.
When it’s charm school.
When it’s the belonging of music
—that song of hers…
(And yes, the moon would renounce
her throne quietly if My Good Beauty Queen laid claim.)
When it’s the lewkiest lewks of all.
When beauty was invented, for goodness’ sake!!!
I want it,
I got it.
When roses
everywhere
are Roses.
when: can you imagine?
me giggling at the goofies firing
they blanks; me snapping shots
of Jupiter, healing and snuggling;
watching antics on the river and reading parable;
when the times bring a processional
of fatherly silence and his shell.
we both write poems, though,
and i’ll run the process down anew beating path.
when it’s Rulership all
around, when it’s time already, align
all ready; when before enlightenment: carry water, chop wood;
when after enlightenment: carry water, chop wood
beautiful blushing bbs trawling
the poem of the deep song
For when you have a Randy Marsh Burger with some tegridy stank sauce on it at the wurlitzer jukebox diner; where candles proliferate, effluent, fountainous. Say hi to the corn stalks, the geese sirens, the electrical howl.
If you’re in a henley at your desk, hourglass going, and fresh off of doing some dishes, 7:45pm, saturday night.
bardic bullion 