Not Your Wife

Dishes stacked high cracked

Jam smeared on dinner plates

Salt and pepper shakers covered by

bills and love letters scattered over the dining room table

The bathroom door is left open

A lady’s leg is propped over the edge of the tub

Her leg is shaved and slick as the slip n slide that nearly knocked us out in our childhood

smells of lavender and rum dance

Strands of her red hair lead the way to the pink wash cloth hiding her breasts

She has a candle burning

And a book about love in the old days

She’s full

Alone in that bathroom she needs only to know what happens in the next chapter


Fragments stitched together

Smiles from laughter

From nervousness

And kisses from drunkenness

From the need to escape

Life teeters in our damp palms

With pieces of our lives piled high

I stitch them together with black thread

Strong enough to hang a shadow

Or catch a dream

Fragments, skin colored

A diversity of skins

Could cover my bones

Could cover my words

Smiles kisses palms

A foretelling

A history

A pitch black thread


Uncategorized Writing

I write to get it of my chest

To experience my thoughts as a mirror

To experiment thoughts I haven’t quite thought

I write so you aren’t alone

So I’m not alone

To have something to reflect on

And to prepare myself for the worst

To get myself through the worst

It’s truth

It’s fiction

It’s both

It’s a collection of so many things that can’t be categorized

It’s my art