selected past writing at 42opus
First eyelids and lips are closed, then open. Now, open eyes appear unseeing. A kind of dreaming.
For thousands of years people have carried their faces this way, one by one, only on their heads.
Under these conditions nothing is harder to control than reason. You babble without speaking,
march into the desert without water. We will die tomorrow, the day after at the latest.
We spit the sucked off pulp off one side
of the porch, then spit the pumpkin seeds
into wooden bowls while Dad shook spices
in a Ball jar, something secret, something
different than the secret thing for popcorn
he called "Magic," seasons humming into
open drawers and cookie sheets. We wanted
only to carve but did this work for him.
12 September 2008 | poetry
Whether you salt me or not
We swallow our mouths together.
We call states.
Name together the animals we'd kill
Singing O Dead Angels all the while.
8 July 2010 | poetry
I sprinted towards the doors, without hesitation; Ian and Kate close behind me, pushing and shoving—propelling me forward. Once at the door, I crept in slowly, excited and relieved to feel the warm, humid air—mingled with the thick smell of chlorine. On the opposite end of the Olympic size pool, was our school motto, painted in large, sweeping, chirographic strokes: Scientia Auget Vires (Knowledge Increases Strength).
"Is anyone else in the building today?" I wondered aloud, suddenly nervous.