Maybe if I could slip into Sylvia’s mind, sort out the spices in her rack, alphabetize them and dust them off. Maybe then I’d understand how it’s the little things that pull you under.
We must live with our hearts in our hands – like Mary.We must hold the blood-red heart and no be disappointedwhen others look away.
As I go under, I wonder if there’s a reason for art?
Yes, it hurts to fall— ache, tenderness—but each scar is a sign your system is working.
She pours sugar on her life and drinks the artist’s marrow in the bone of her glass and she lives.
in the corner of the painting of successthe signature is blurred
Like the kite that caught up to the sky,painted with clouds, I lost track of it, but it was connected by string, something I was holding, something I could always bring back.
Maybe I’m still the mermaid. Maybe the ocean is your hand.
For everyone who never smiled in school photos, for all who’ve wandered city streetsnot knowing the where they were or feeling alone, I’ve packed kindness.
I don’t believe we should carry backupplans in life’s suitcase—they’re too easy to unpack like living a life in yoga pants, so comfortable our hips spreadinto new timezones…
I wonder if I might be lonelierif I didn’t have loneliness
and everyone wants to read the poem we’re afraid to write.
I escape disaster by writing a poem with a joke in it:The past, present, and future walk into a bar—it was tense.
…look up and see the madnessorganized in the stars.
A crowd of drunken lovers. Newspaper hats, new couples falling from couches and love- seats—the pleasure remembered, never the regret.
Understand, it’s never been easy to live, when we’re trying to escape ourselves.
I place solitude in a frame on my desk and call it, the one I love.
I can’t relate to your razzle-dazzle, your wish for voluptuous when my symphony is spanx.
A friend comes over with a Ouija board.It spells out: Bourbon. Where’s the band?Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.