Curl Under My Hairy Toes

I know there is a heart inside me.
This is a love poem I sent to Hallmark. I said Fill me
with your papered mush. I was so excited to talk
to you, I put on the wrong lips. I said My other lips
mean business. I said Did you see the sky get angry
this morning? I was trying to impress you
with my ability to look up. I said Polka Dots, get off
the floor when you sneeze. I never want you to catch
a cold. There is a snow globe at the end
of this poem. Inside the snow globe: fake snow,
my skin I have rolled up for you, hello.
The Pumpkin Hearts Eat Out

So many bands whose names start with The. The Emotions in Me Are Steam. The Pumpkin Hearts Are a Lonely Astronaut. The Lost Finale Sucked. This morning, I sit alone in a booth. The waitress smells like the pieces of bacon that get stuck in the top of your gums. The coffee tastes staler than last night. The Coffee Tastes. I remember sleeping you dry. Now, the radio plays throughout the diner. The Love Pollution from Your Thighs. After the song, I never remember the commercials. I want to tell you I haven’t thought about her rising action in months, but you never listen to the b-sides. In hotels, I never open the drawers. There are too many words in books about God. I listen to The Modern Day Carpenter Manages an IKEA on repeat. We buy the limited edition 7”, sleep on rugs that look like flannel pajamas. My iTunes is the color of clam chowder. My least favorite band: The Handjobs.


This Ain’t No Place for Kids No More

Four women were hurt in the making of my heart. Nine men were hurt in the mending of the four women’s hearts. Now, everyone cries in basements: gas stoves turned down: we are freezing the loneliness we left out as trash. And I say Why does every girl look like Brittany at 3:31 a.m.? My heart is an entire phonebook in Tampa, Florida. And I say nothing. I want to kiss every baby who sneezes. There are so many babies, I hate spring the most. I hate sleeping inside out. I will never regret watching Teen Wolf. I do not regret my heart: loud wind a swell above the sewer.


Poem as Happy Hour

This poem yells I have met so many people
I will never love. Slosh slosh slosh. Can you
taste the alcohol in this poem? It’s darker
than well water, sweeter than the sprinkler
planted between your thighs. This poem
whispers Life needs to wash behind its neck.
There’s too much grime caked into the bathtub,
and really, who has the time to plan such a big
wedding? Can a poem talk underwater?
Standing on my roof, this poem yells These words
are red because you have touched me holy.
There is death in the air, and I haven’t even
brought up the birds that have stopped
coming around. Standing on my roof,
this poem looks at the pool below. There are statues
of lions with good posture. Everything faces
north, quietly shivers against the breeze. Standing
on my roof, this poem yells Cannonball.
Splash splash splash.


Love Poem # Whatever

You’re a cold winter landscape and I just jacked a parka
from an Eskimo. What I mean is, you taste better than you
did yesterday. I taste you rhythmically: my tongue keeps the beat
of my finger as it taps against your hip. I taste you quietly,
as if my parents were still sleeping in the other room,
as if your fingers were finding the elastic waistband
of my boxers for the first time. Our bed is stacked
with pillows and cat hair, and now our bodies stick together
like Tupperware lids. We hold hands while walking through IKEA,
furnishing the nursery of our house we bought on Monopoly.
This means we love each other. On TV, a chef puts an entire pear
on top of a slice of Brie that sits on top of a hamburger.
This is all wedged between a pretzel roll. I’ve never had a pretzel roll,
but you promise me it’s tops. Not as tops as your hips I say.
If we were a bad sitcom, millions of people would watch us rub
cheeks, wear matching pajamas to bed. They’ll like how you curl
your hair, slowly at first, but then you speed up when your arm
grows tired. People will talk about us around the water cooler,
during their children’s soccer practice, after making love
with the lights on. The critics will call us Contrived, yet adorable,
and Something worth watching while flossing.