A product of builders. I stand in the middle of a four-lane highway and feel abandoned and rooted and long.
We all become machine operators when we turn sixteen -- we are all skilled, we are all laboring.
I ask you to be brave and focused and wise and thoughtful and immense and weak only because I forget -- we are all skilled, we are all laboring; we feel abandoned and rooted and lost.
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My grandfather lay on a bed with his cheeks shaved smooth. He looked strange, like they had taken the real one and shown me the sick one, expecting me to not know the difference.
The walls all seem like brick. The sheets all seem like white.
My mother cried when I wasn't there. We never lay on the couch together and cried like I did with Dad when someone I never even knew passed on. Dad cried for his dad but I had never said grandfather for him.
My grandfather lay on a bed with his respirator pulled out, ice chips in a paper cup in his hand, promising to fish with me in the lake at the bottom of the hill again.
My grandfather lay on a bed with doctors that all seemed like fish, gaping as he lifted out of the water and where their fins don't reach, and his cheeks became gills and he stopped breathing: respirators not scuba divers.
The sun dried his face golden and all that was left by the time the phone call was over was a puddle of saltwater on the counter, stinging the bottoms of my arms.
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dance dreams .. curly brown hair silhouette fair ground lights around and up and around and down // a rock in the middle of a great pond and you upon it.. . curly brown hair
silhouette
dreams dance .. ferris wheel comes back around and around you are in my nights years later // yellow 5am bird sounds water spirals down the drain empty streets.
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it's gray. it's grains of sky sliding down a chute and stacking up and crushing .. sliding down the side of the pile to flat and dull / to cut.
ring . click . ring . click. ring ring. click click click fan whirring on and on fan whirring / fill the room dark from one wall to the next the out wall to the door dark up to the ceiling and the fan.
click.
rence rence once twice thrice rence
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i am first naked with muscles moving shallow under bones breasts sagged into slopes and i put on soft layer after soft layer until i am weighted to the floor and they crown me.
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the sky is expansive. write another poem. // say something wiser.
the sky is expansive and reaches on forever, but its rim is the horizon and horizon is land and we are at the finger tips of the sky in every moment we wake and walk.
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erase the words // write in new words studying brings more words only words words and no speech .. erase the wall drawn on the white board in red pen/ hands messy from the marker crumbs
i am giving up. i am up and giving. giving i am up.
go grow growl growled
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Your work over the years I've read it has a surprising consistency throughout— somehow you manage to make what appears to be disconnected images and pull them together into something far more beautiful than the sum of its parts.
Your poetry seems to reflect life— chaotic but all important parts of the whole.
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
Your poetry is so unique and different! The type of poetry that stops and makes me think And that's the kind of poetry I treasure most <3
Trust in God and all else follows.
Deanie, dominating the world since it was cool @Pompadour, 2014 Your username reminds me of a hotdog @Stegosaurus, 2015 Tried to make puns out of your username, but every attempt has been Deanied @Candywizard, 2015
And that's the kind of poetry I treasure most <3
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