September 1, 2012
LycanthropyThis time the werewolf saves the women in the village; carries them offby their hair while their dresses are tornon rocks and sticks in the forest. The womenscream and kick, yet he trudges onward.This fearless animal lugs elevenwith one arm; in this other fist, he claspsa locket with my name on it: catharine. Insideis the photo from a barbeque, 2008, corn on the cob,(teaching the boy how to husk), hamburgers,ketchup, and arm wrestling with the overweight friend.Memories he clings to as he saves allthe women from romance. Why take the chance?He must take them to the river, drownthem in the water, munch on their still-warm,moist flesh and add their teeth to the chain.Oh wait! You know this story. You have donethis to men and women for two decades—every time you promise you’ll never dothis again, learned your lesson—you’re sad,sorry, remorseful, then you meet the next girlat the Walmart parking lot. The cars lined uplike gravestones. Each license plate listsan expiration date. Pick me up in your car,drive me around town. I know we won’t get far.

Lycanthropy

This time the werewolf saves the women
 in the village; carries them off
by their hair while their dresses are torn
on rocks and sticks in the forest. The women
scream and kick, yet he trudges onward.
This fearless animal lugs eleven
with one arm; in this other fist, he clasps
a locket with my name on it: catharine. Inside
is the photo from a barbeque, 2008, corn on the cob,
(teaching the boy how to husk), hamburgers,
ketchup, and arm wrestling with the overweight friend.
Memories he clings to as he saves all
the women from romance. Why take the chance?
He must take them to the river, drown
them in the water, munch on their still-warm,
moist flesh and add their teeth to the chain.
Oh wait! You know this story. You have done
this to men and women for two decades—
every time you promise you’ll never do
this again, learned your lesson—you’re sad,
sorry, remorseful, then you meet the next girl
at the Walmart parking lot. The cars lined up
like gravestones. Each license plate lists
an expiration date. Pick me up in your car,
drive me around town. I know we won’t get far.

11:51am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vSZO5bJ
(Notes: 1)
  
August 15, 2012
At Sunset Downtown     The radio announcer foretold of love and marriage—how one only needs curiosity and that’s it. Oh, how curious I was that you’d leave Omaha for the uncultured, uninhabited west, for some one stop sign town with a Labor Day Parade as its only attraction and a gravel driveway leading to your house. Now, I sit at the river, watch the sunset and curse myself for not following you. I should have gone. Should have planted myself in your shoes, in your dumbbells, in your calves. Every time you moved, I ached and felt myself become wet. Here, the radio cries, is the answer to every marriage dilemma. I don’t listen—sand in my ears, tumbleweeds in my backseat, blood in my underwear. Please come back. Please.

At Sunset Downtown
 
 
The radio announcer foretold of love and marriage—how one only needs curiosity and that’s it. Oh, how curious I was that you’d leave Omaha for the uncultured, uninhabited west, for some one stop sign town with a Labor Day Parade as its only attraction and a gravel driveway leading to your house. Now, I sit at the river, watch the sunset and curse myself for not following you. I should have gone. Should have planted myself in your shoes, in your dumbbells, in your calves. Every time you moved, I ached and felt myself become wet. Here, the radio cries, is the answer to every marriage dilemma. I don’t listen—sand in my ears, tumbleweeds in my backseat, blood in my underwear. Please come back. Please.

10:12am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vRTAAGa
July 30, 2012
Birds I hate birds. Their wings flapping, beaks pointy and their pecking, pecking at the ground for bugs, worms, gold—-God knows what. Once, a little bird flew in my face. To swat the thing away with my arm was out of the question—it was a friend’s pet. So, I hit the deck. Flattened body, arms covering my head, tears soaking her welcome mat, I laid in her foyer until she assured me the beast was locked up in its cage. I rose, trembling. Her eyes, her kids’ eyes large. It was like a bullet ricocheted off the walls and I dodged it. I survived. Now, I imagine how to murder that bird. Poison? Too easy. Bird-nap? Too hard. I purchased a snake for my son, under the guise that he needed a pet. Allergic to cats and dogs, possibly all fur, we ended up with the corn snake. There is a snake in the Mexican flag on the verge of ingesting an eagle. Birds. Left over dinosaurs, right? Whatever happened to the extinct monsters should have happened to these flying atrocities. The solar flare missed. The asteroid wasn’t big enough. Noah, that workman of God, could have at the very least, left the birds off the ark. Look how they break up a lovely sunrise; listen as they pollute the air with song; look at how they leave excrement on our sidewalks, cars, roofs. Look! With my gun, I saunter off to the field. Watch how they flee. Watch how I aim, watch how my hunting dog chases down their fallen bodies. Cut open their breast, tear off their feathers, fry them up in skillets and listen to the crack and pop of the grease.

Birds


I hate birds. Their wings flapping, beaks pointy
and their pecking, pecking at the ground
for bugs, worms, gold—-God knows what.

Once, a little bird flew in my face.
To swat the thing away with my arm
was out of the question—it was a friend’s pet.

So, I hit the deck. Flattened body, arms
covering my head, tears soaking her welcome mat,
I laid in her foyer until she assured me

the beast was locked up in its cage. I rose,
trembling. Her eyes, her kids’ eyes large.
It was like a bullet ricocheted off the walls

and I dodged it. I survived. Now,
I imagine how to murder that bird.
Poison? Too easy. Bird-nap? Too

hard. I purchased a snake for my son,
under the guise that he needed a pet.
Allergic to cats and dogs, possibly

all fur, we ended up with the corn snake.
There is a snake in the Mexican flag
on the verge of ingesting an eagle.

Birds. Left over dinosaurs, right?
Whatever happened to the extinct
monsters should have happened to

these flying atrocities. The solar flare
missed. The asteroid wasn’t big enough.
Noah, that workman of God, could have

at the very least, left the birds off the ark.
Look how they break up a lovely sunrise;
listen as they pollute the air with song;

look at how they leave excrement on
our sidewalks, cars, roofs. Look!
With my gun, I saunter off to the field.

Watch how they flee. Watch how I aim,
watch how my hunting dog chases
down their fallen bodies. Cut open

their breast, tear off their feathers,
fry them up in skillets and listen
to the crack and pop of the grease.

4:19pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vQQ9v8w
July 29, 2012
We Had Wandered Far     My friend and I were lost. Sort of. GPS was in the car, maps tucked in the trunk, (her car in an angry man’s pay-by-the-hour parking lot) and people strolled along the scenic brick-paved streets. We wanted to be lost. “Lost”, dizzy, drunk and “girl, see if we can find our way back to the car” giggles, we chose Howard Street to loot. All the men ogled us, tourists—wobbly high heels, tangled curls— and they whistled, waved, bought us each a cranberry vodka. My friend hates cranberries. “They are good for your kidneys. You gotta drink it!” I exclaimed and drank it for her. Any other night I’m in bed before 1am, alone, listening to my husband snore in the next room, listening to the old neighbor lady screech at her cats, and tonight I am not in bed, not pummeled by regret. I am lost with my dearest friend in my hometown discovering lost streets, strange bars and new lovers and I pray I will never find my way home. Cranberry juice is sweet and if one drinks too much, she will vomit red, crusting her hair into tiny blossoms.

We Had Wandered Far
 
 
My friend and I were lost. Sort of.
GPS was in the car, maps tucked in the trunk,
(her car in an angry man’s pay-by-the-hour parking lot)
and people strolled along the scenic brick-paved
streets. We wanted to be lost. “Lost”, dizzy, drunk
and “girl, see if we can find our way back to the car”
giggles, we chose Howard Street to loot. All
the men ogled us, tourists—wobbly high heels, tangled curls—
and they whistled, waved, bought us each
a cranberry vodka. My friend hates cranberries.
“They are good for your kidneys. You gotta drink it!” 
I exclaimed and drank it for her. Any other night
I’m in bed before 1am, alone, listening to my husband
snore in the next room, listening to the old neighbor lady
screech at her cats, and tonight I am not in bed,
not pummeled by regret. I am lost with my dearest
friend in my hometown discovering lost streets, strange bars
and new lovers and I pray I will never find my way home.
Cranberry juice is sweet and if one drinks too much,
she will vomit red, crusting her hair into tiny blossoms.

9:53pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vQN5Q_B
July 23, 2012
The Truth Will Set You Free empty room empty mall empty womb empty vows empty fridge empty god empty bed empty shoe empty tree empty song empty pen empty screen empty book empty cat fake family fake economy fake children fake marriage fake menu fake denomination fake comforter fake closet fake garden fake anthem fake biography fake theater fake bible fake veterinarian

The Truth Will Set You Free



empty room
empty mall
empty womb
empty vows
empty fridge
empty god
empty bed
empty shoe
empty tree
empty song
empty pen
empty screen
empty book
empty cat

fake family
fake economy
fake children
fake marriage
fake menu
fake denomination
fake comforter
fake closet
fake garden
fake anthem
fake biography
fake theater
fake bible
fake veterinarian

7:57am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vPwoTtF
Filed under: poetry poem photo photgraphy iphone clock truth 
July 18, 2012
The Sign The wires laced upwards like a tent, a giant shoe, tying together me and you. You are gum on the bottom of my shoe, but I scrap you off, and you become you. Gently, a shoe salesman caresses my sole; the shoe embraces my foot, my ankles. I trip you on the way to the buffet. Like every other shoe in a shoebox in a lost storage room, you remind me of me when I was young and new. You smell like a book on a Barnes & Noble shelf, you taste like a plastic spoon, you are every shoe I have tried on and every shoe has been size 8 and you are you.

The Sign

The wires laced upwards like a tent, a giant shoe,
tying together me and you.
You are gum on the bottom of my shoe,
but I scrap you off, and you become you.
Gently, a shoe salesman caresses my sole; the shoe
embraces my foot, my ankles. I trip you
on the way to the buffet. Like every other shoe
in a shoebox in a lost storage room, you
remind me of me when I was young and new.
You smell like a book on a Barnes & Noble shelf, you
taste like a plastic spoon, you are every shoe
I have tried on and every shoe has been size 8 and you
are you.

11:29pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vPe_FG8
July 8, 2012
rose   She rose early the saturday after and we wandered outside to witness glistening drops on her mother’s roses, leaves and bushes. She wore the raincoat, the boots, ready for play; instead, the mist weighed us down.

rose
 
She rose early the saturday after and we wandered outside
to witness glistening drops on her mother’s roses,
leaves and bushes. She wore the raincoat, the boots, ready
for play; instead, the mist weighed us down.

11:29pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vOzuhjM
Filed under: poem poetry rose jump rain photography iphone photo kids pink 
July 6, 2012
All Art Comes from Space    The green aliens landed, strapped me to their ship and tore the sky wide open without mercy. They wrote words on my skin that I translated to no one typing away on their computer-like machines. No! I just made that up. All night I cried and begged my second husband for mercy via text message while he screwed Deidre, DeeDee, Diana—one of those women whose name begins with D. Or perhaps it started  with a J like Joan of Benson. What could I do? Hunker down and breastfeed my baby, play Matchbox cars with my toddler, and write poems about Hitler, crucifixion and starvation after they went to bed. “All art comes from pain, sweetie.” I whisper to the wanna-be painter I have married. This, the third chance at love. The stakes are lower. Art and marriage are the same. They hurt. They cut the flesh where no one sees.   So, Jenny, or Delilah, come take my sexy, young husband away and I will write about you until my hair is gray, my skin sun spotted and the Martians sweep me up in their long green arms and whisper secrets in my ear. My sky is fresh from a spring downpour. I have nothing to lose.

All Art Comes from Space
  
The green aliens landed, strapped me to their ship and tore the sky
wide open without mercy. They wrote words on my skin that
I translated to no one typing away on their computer-like machines.
No! I just made that up.
All night I cried and begged my second husband for mercy via
text message while he screwed Deidre, DeeDee, Diana—one
of those women whose name begins with D. Or perhaps it started 
with a J like Joan of Benson.
What could I do?
Hunker down and breastfeed my baby, play Matchbox cars with my toddler,
and write poems about Hitler, crucifixion and starvation
after they went to bed.
“All art comes from pain, sweetie.” I whisper to the wanna-be painter
I have married. This, the third chance at love. The stakes are
lower. Art and marriage are the same. They hurt. They cut
the flesh where no one sees.
 
So, Jenny, or Delilah, come take
my sexy, young husband away and I will write about you
until my hair is gray, my skin sun spotted and the Martians
sweep me up in their long green arms and whisper secrets
in my ear. My sky is fresh from a spring downpour.
I have nothing to lose.

12:48pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vOpdEhM
Filed under: poem poetry art photography iphone space alien ex 
July 6, 2012
When it lifts   when his broad burnt shoulders turn, flex, he reaches for the bedside lamp, clicks, and the darkness tastes like his weight. his breath smells like my son’s and every time he moves, i think of the turbulence on the plane ride back from arizona. every bump i thought would be my last. the ice cubes in my glass tinkled and jingled like a carol, my daughter sang amazing grace, and my son inched closer than he had in years, our hands pressed together. i smiled. let me go like this— close to my son, his air, my air, my little girl’s voice ringing, and the pressure of the cabin tight and tense like my husband’s back muscles when he makes love.

When it lifts
 
when his broad burnt shoulders turn, flex, he reaches
for the bedside lamp, clicks, and the darkness tastes
like his weight. his breath smells like my son’s and
every time he moves, i think of the turbulence
on the plane ride back from arizona. every bump
i thought would be my last. the ice cubes in my glass
tinkled and jingled like a carol, my daughter sang
amazing grace, and my son inched closer than he
had in years, our hands pressed together.
i smiled. let me go like this—
close to my son, his air, my air, my little girl’s voice
ringing, and the pressure of the cabin tight and tense
like my husband’s back muscles when he makes love.

10:58am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vOpIDW3
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: poem poetry plane photography iphone son husband lift 
June 27, 2012
dirty mustard, fungus colored chairs over cement   The abandoned chair echoes the shape of the boy and the girl who once wheeled around pretending to drive as if this chair was their mom’s Buick, their dad’s Grand Am. All they knew was cigarettes so they took their crayons, puffed on them, flicked them off the armrests, then took playdoh and spit into empty pop cans like they’d seen their granddad do. It wasn’t until Mom and Dad and Granddaddy moved on, the chair kept outside in the rain, that the brother and sister whispered their ill-timed love of the house, the chair, the holes in the wall—Mom tried to push the beige couch covered in ripped sheets down the stairs, all by herself—it wasn’t until they spoke aloud their memories,  that the mold was reclaimed.

dirty mustard, fungus colored chairs over cement
 
The abandoned chair echoes the shape of the boy and the girl
who once wheeled around pretending to drive as if
this chair was their mom’s Buick, their dad’s Grand Am.
All they knew was cigarettes so they took their crayons,
puffed on them, flicked them off the armrests,
then took playdoh and spit into empty pop cans
like they’d seen their granddad do. It wasn’t until
Mom and Dad and Granddaddy moved on,
the chair kept outside in the rain, that the brother
and sister whispered their ill-timed love of the house,
the chair, the holes in the wall—Mom tried to push
the beige couch covered in ripped sheets down
the stairs, all by herself—it wasn’t until
they spoke aloud their memories, 
that the mold was reclaimed.

10:33pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZfQQ1vOGLbpT
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: poetry poem chair childhood photo iphone photography girl boy green office