Toast

you have to have two

pieces, because I want two

pieces-- but not three. 

5/17

Cars line up 

and chase 

each other 

down the 

street, like

dogs, once 

the light 

changes. I

sit on a 

bench, knees

swelling, watching.

Wishing someone

was strong

enough to

carry me

for a while,

but, knowing

no one is, 

I stand

again. 

Show

In this room

everyone is captivated

by flannel clad guitarists

and their feet glow gold

under the single overhead light

and I am red-wine nostalgic

wishing I could wink at you

across the room; that your

brown eyes, white teeth, 

black, black hair would

suddenly appear on the 

floral couch.

We could shoot knowing

glances back and forth 

everyone else milling around

with their gold feet 

totally oblivious to 

love ricocheting off

the moulding, wooden 

and crowned. 

collector

i keep strange things,

meaningless to others:

a small red wax leaf

made with pushing 

thumbs at granny's 

dining room table

an unsharpened 

Washington Bullets

pencil with a fat pink eraser

a Spanish Garnacha 

bottle, drained long

ago and now corked 

with a drippy red candle

pictures and postcards

and phrases I liked 

post-its covered in 

passwords and user IDs

doodles I've clipped from

boring-class notebooks 

and taped into others 

words and words

and words and a 

strange oppressive 

guilt for everything I've

never said to your face

and the growing pile 

of things I want to. 

confessions

How could I have known
that I was a tumultuous storm
spot on a hot red planet?

The biggest planet
with more rings and
bracelets than all the others.
I guess, somehow, I knew.

But what you mistake
for sheer swirling power
is a more complex tempest

a fiery combination of confusion
and guilt propelled by a refusal
to fail and alot of resiliency.

But mostly I think that hot
red spot you saw was
just an intense heart,
with plenty of room for you.

Five O'clock (a revision of Bravery)

I wonder how you feel

around 5 O'clock
when you come home from work

if we take the joy out from you
and drag it across the kitchen floor

Send you retreating into the old
rocker, battered, to sit for the rest of the night

in front of the three-channeled television.

Like the strange failure of those waves from
the broadcasting networks to the
flimsy antennae of the tv,

I can never get a signal from you that is

strong enough to decipher.

And one thought reruns in my head,

a consistent 5 o'clock syndication:
One day you will drop dead, and I won't know a
Goddamn thing about you.

Notes on recent life

My previous thesis plans have changed. Unfortunately Jill Rosser is unable to direct my thesis work next year and new plans must be made as my penultimate portfolio is due in a matter of weeks. However, good ideas seem to flow in times of stress and uncertainty. Thankfully. 

My thesis work will now be directed, roughly, towards my very favorite of subjects (and practices): Food. 

An amazing professor of plant biology here at OU has preliminarily agreed to direct my thesis work. A project with the working title of "Words on Food." 

I am interested in what American's eat, where it comes from, how it's grown, why its not sustainable, and what America can learn from other countries about eating and growing

It could involve touring farms, grocery stores, slaughter houses, traveling to sustainable alternative agriculture sights, maybe even growing my own garden! 

It's a big topic and a big project as of now, but it is very exciting.