see [sic] dot net

Measure ink by length
and sheets like streets; my hands walk
farther than my feet.

From a story Mike told me about how far all the Bic pens could draw.  I originally , and accordingly, titled this To the Moon and Back Fourteen Times, and still kind of like it because I like long titles for short poems. Paper Trail hits the mark too, though.

For my creative writing class.

“It’s the last bad day,”
     she swears with a whisper
     soft as the sheets I pull
     up to her chin like a child
     and I remember when–

“It’s the last bad day,”
     she prays again, but not as
     sure as last night, last week;
     she’s been begging for years now
     and ever since–

“It’s the last bad day.”
     Three is her usual as is my
     nod and a finger on the switch,
     one day she’ll get it right
     and then–

This poem will also appear in a future issue of WordRiot.org, an awesome site to find interesting pieces from poetry to flash fiction.  I’m excited for my words to rub elbows with the kind of work found there.

Tell me to go,
I will if you
wish it so.
And in
my leave-taking
the light–
shifting shadows,
snuffing candles,
shutting the bedroom
door

as always.

Allow me to stay,
I’d rather it
be that way.
And sit
until the dead
of night–
shifting shadows,
snuffing candles,
shutting the bedroom
door

all the same.

This poem was recently published in the premiere issue of Concise Delight, and was also selected to be in a future web-issue at WordRiot.org.

bury me, bury me not

burn flesh from bone
grind bone to dust
fling dust to wind

let the world carry me aloft
better that than
some strange, sterile lot

bury me, bury me not

How many stories
can one girl tell?
For how much will she
put her heart on sale?

Two cents to publish,
and one to buy –
pennies are poet’s gold.

The world’s weight in words,
that’s where worth lies.