this sign on the road
leads me to a closing
of a raspy conversation
I cannot remember.
somehow, I’m held accountable.
I’ll need a new pair of jeans
by the shout of tomorrow’s alarm
that never pauses to consider
superior reasoning after nine.
my eyelids are actually quarters.
vending and folding on plastic tables
and nodding when I succeed
in finding legs without holes
for 7 dollars towards which I hold no argument.
already, I pray for a cold front.
*Lately, I’ve been experimenting. Creating a SoundCloud account is one of those things I’m testing out. You can find a reading of this poem here. I’ve always been nervous about reading my poetry in public, so I thought choosing an online venue would be a good start. There are also other files I’ve included for your listening curiosity as well. While I’ll be sorting through poems on the blog to feature on SoundCloud, requests are more than welcome if there’s a specific poem you want me to read that I haven’t yet considered. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your continued support and readership.
SoundCloud – CPCranes
in unremarkable fashion.
What you did
just minutes ago,
nestled in the cracks
and webs that we hoped
were not of the brown recluse.
We weren’t ready for infants on doorsteps
so we heard you arguing in the dark,
mocking those selling chocolates
for the young and partitioned
are universally nodded at.
spring to the porcelain sky
and timelessly yawn.
Cat No. 57 of the 500 Cats Project
she told me I was a lovely girl
and that her son was lonely.
I was twenty-two,
listening to an almost-widow
apologize for my empty apron.
they told me not to expect anything,
so I didn’t, and told her I’d be fine.
she told me her husband was happy
and that he couldn’t read letters.
So, he couldn’t read “tip,”
but again, it’s not such a faux pas
when we recall the doctor easing cotton out the ear.
recently, I’ve been collected
though I never learned to organize.
truthfully, I’ve never chosen to
as I grab my backpack before the day.
After five, I searched for news
while staring at a love letter rolled up straight
and taut, written in ballpoint ink without any sound of my name.
eyes on the collar, I pawed at my keys,
gaze reciprocated when I pulled out a maxi pad two weeks early.
unite the dots
upon each leg
to watch a parasol
turn on crooked landings.
sunken in the spot
the sun loves most.
crouched but undecided
as to whether a dangling finger
is worth the strain and theatrics
that end in the hunger of wildfires.
wings spread like jam
and her core is rotted.
a woman at the corner
with dulled layers matted
has waved to a passing sedan
securing the murmurs of one lost.
You make little caves in my sofa, and from their mouths spring gray cotton. Fortunately, these past three months, you haven’t broken the skin. Instead, you wake me with the poke of your snaggletooth, that when lit by the ceiling bulb above, lends your lips a sinister froth. One eye blinks, cloudier to anyone who looks closer, anyone soft enough to pour you some milk every other morning after the reach for brewed chai.
I used to hate the color pink, but I grow into it more. Blotching colors my inpatient skin, my blunt jawline scaly and newly sore. Orchids supposedly beautify the individual, though they hang from the sills of every corporation worth remembering. I wear orchid dresses as they are safe. Despite what some bookish marketing psychologist may preach in her dozen e-books, I am one in the crowd, thought straying from the path of an office. Some days, that path is walked by dozens of frantic flamingos.
Ever since these shades of pink, you creep to my bed with squinting eyes. I remove my headphones and admit I like Bush to a concerning extent.
“Don’t let the days go by.”
I no longer have an alarm clock. Tabby will ram her head against mine and paw at the corners of this feathered pillow. Unlike the sofa, it bears no caves. I open my eyes and I see your tongue, confident in its flicker, as you know it is time to eat.
Each morning, intuition feeds at four.
I receive like those cheeks
of captive pufferfish
children poke fun at
while adults fish for crabs
greeting anyone with an open mouth,
those locals – calmed and drunk
on strawberry coconut water
swishing at the harshest inclines
against the sides of cracked red cups
they blink as I stretch my neck
to find a pigeon’s story
in terracotta planters
I sometimes assumed were homes
Cat No. 56 of the 500 Cats Project
pieces of an egg puzzle
I couldn’t quite solve.
“…writes about religion
that really makes you think.”
her father seems like one
I’d share coffee with, raw.
I remember the day,
squeezing my temples,
learning Judy Garland’s icicle truths.
I grabbed a pen,
always reminding myself
not to sign as the remembered Marianne.
Wishing I could glide
across weathered Teflon
and bypass trees, wrists wrapped tight.
Oh, to stand on some aged beach
with a nude Adrien Brody.
*What you see are designs for double wall tumblers, made possible by hours of Tori Amos in the early morning. Both are for sale on my Etsy shop, Let’s Coast.