Poems written in 2010, published by Poetry is Dead magazine and Matrix Magazine.

Starving Rabbits

Wringing out the rattle

of words that hook ears

hanging from her head

a misdirected fax, a broken pencil

the bus gritty with

soiled escapes

she climbed aboard

in sticky polyester

and a tiny thimble rocked

between her fingers

while she waited for the insides

of the glass to freeze over.

One stop till last she

picked at sugar cubes while

Chewing room-temperature

French fries and waiting

Another hour before heading

To the elderly bar where cowboys

Soaked pints and warbled

Cmon nows and where you froms

Rinsing her blouse in the

hotel room sink it hung from

the shower rod like a ghost

dripping transparent

upon linoleum that curled softly

like a dog-eared paperback.

She hummed herself to sleepAs flickered thoughts broke

Socket breakers and short circuits

behind eyelids

Sudden and siezure

A gasp of a girl

smothered in water.

Ditched the shirt the next morning

Bought discount denim, crayon blue

(that would stain her legs indigo with sweat)

She set off along the shoulder

Near the woods and so she thought to herself:

Maybe I’ll reach the house

where my dad grew up.

Near the powerlines, in the mountains

off the rez, snug by the river

teach myself how to hunt rabbits

someone told me once

you would starve if all you ate

were rabbits

I told them, yeah.

and I can’t even run that fast.


Pedal pressed flat she smokes past horizons

pushing shirt cuffs past elbows and drawing

words to make an argument that

leans over slightly, looking to the left

aviators drop and a car freckled in dirt.

Swerving bits and pieces of

a likely understanding before wrecking

all the tidy promises that she was never

meant to keep but they say

be flexible

(not unless you expect to live till eighty).

Another cigarette pulled back

a deck of cards sitting smug

gambling a way out of here

elbows empty of aces and a smile

worth convincing. It’s the perfume

that slipcovers a night of 3am

rock and roll stomping, boots

that slack-jaw open and

a shirt worn three days prior.

You wish she pet that pistol

to pieces her knuckles run raw

with a one-touch punch and a

jaw sore from clenching certainty.

Splintered blood and a white flag;

bravery smashed over glass.

This was the buckle ready head toss

of tattered hair and wide shouldered beliefs.

Closest to the forest was a tree shaped

freshener and a dedicated habit to overtake:

Like ivy like moss like pine beetles.

An organized break of order while a new

Understanding employs destruction,

a habitual breakdown of demanded respect.

Roll the window down before

passengers feel as though they might

drown beneath the haze of rat-tat-tat

explanations and well-played arguments

arcing like a halo; Surrounding glimpses

of a softer future. Round houses for families

instead of personal agendas and

a glued together dinner plate

intercepted expectations for every

Brown faced beautiful raw snicker that

you didn’t know.

That your kid-sister spent 10 years

learning what to dream of.