Month: January 2017

Diagramming the Flood

This morning is more punch drunk love than punching bag. I called twice to tell you I love you. A voiceless voicemail, woods lost in the suburbs. I bought a compass from the compass store but threw it out after I lost the directions. Where do you go when you go where you go? I’m trying not to notice which way you moved on, but every river points toward you. Inside every earthquake is another memory aging away in a flock of birds. How much more honey do I need? I want to magic eight ball my way back...

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In the Kitchen

I don’t understand why you chip away. Are you life and I’m the edge of an old brown drip glaze dinner plate? This role of dishwasher wear and tear you’re ceaselessly spinning: It erodes me. It anything but drips me dry. Or is it that I’m creamy onion dip and a Lay is all you are? Cracked up to get together, I’ll see you at the bar. Please tell me, Love, before you eat me. In advance of my shattering, ere my slivers mangling your motor, your warm, soapy water flooding over my glossy skin, this lemon-fresh...

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Here We Are Now

Once there was an orange faced man who tried to ruin our summer, intoxicate the fall, and euthanize the winter. Fuck that, Cheeto. You’re not the one. We can huff and puff too. Blow away the stains of the dusts of your lies. Post-post-truth is the new word. In October, I wore a shirt in the desert utopia that said Fuck Hate and it felt like we really would. Your repelling ways would be gone. People of sex and color shook my hand and took my picture. United, we pledged to Fuck Hate, believing we really could. And then...

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It’s a Man’s World

I offer you a sampling of things I heard, read, and saw in the month leading up to the U.S. presidential election on the topic of women and inequality: 1. An email from my former law firm announcing its new partners and counsels for 2017: 15 men, 1 woman. The self-congratulatory email came complete with pictures. As I scrolled past photo after photo of man after man, my eyes became blurry with tears. I recalled the female partner who sat me down before I left the firm over a decade ago to tell me that the partnership was drafting...

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Eye of the Hummingbird

My wife’s blood is the color of raspberry jelly. When I shoot her in her eye it explodes in a mist from her face. I want to make peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwiches for my lunch. My hands are covered in Kathy’s blood. I wash them with soap and water. I hum a song and remember when Father and I would catch trout during the summer. Mother would cook them along with wax beans and okra. When I was eleven Father told Mother I could shoot the eye out of a hummingbird. I finish packing my sandwiches and...

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