“Deeply personal and unabashedly confessional, Dirty Socks and Pine Needles deftly stitches the fractals of memory into something resembling a heirloom quilt – torn, ragged, stained and deeply loved.”—matthew loney, canadian poet
I collect moments like I would seashells, raising them to the sky so that they block out the beach sun and the shining eroded stars embedded in their small crevices wink down at me. I blow into them, tasting their sweet saltiness, and listen to the ocean that resides, singing, in them. I collect moments like I would seashells.
this is a sailor’s love - drunken and uncontrollable, swaying on the deck of an unstable ship, sick from overexposure to the airiness of its presence, demanding and unfathomable in its undying commitment and oh so passionate for you, the sea.
tree tops lean into the touch of spring, breath tickling tips, bursts of pink blossoms lifted up on the breeze float, swimming in warm currents, to slowly drift down to stony beds, a spread of soft pale sheets to rest green eyes.
and the lack thereof has been one of my fatal flaws this time around being a human. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, expecting services to be cut and undervaluing the worthiness of simply being present. As I make another step toward truth, or reality, or self destruction I keep wondering when a…
The smoke poured; luring out of the eyes - the weaving undertones of a man that knows, his oval eyes dilate in slices, slithering fragments of truth or illusion, his peering pupils sliding inside the worm hole he navigated with his protruding puffs of smoke, he followed them through; into the…
i. i had it during sophomore year when i was the only girl in our geometry class who refused to wear a short skirt every friday when we had a test. (as a result, i was also the only girl in the class to get points taken off if my theorems weren’t written word for word how that pervert of a teacher…
Beyond the fervor of the tide I tried to find, I tried to find my distant lover’s prophetic eyes hid neath’ the silver-wrought skies of yesterday’s afternoon and my sorrow, my sorrow has filled the hour with nights of June stuck between the arrogance of Summer and the longing of tomorrow nestled in your loving embrace without the fears I always face.
my short story was published in the quarterly magazine Burning Word.
“Remember that time when we were in Target, and you put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerated section, because we wanted chilled champagne (the only way I’d drink it) and Target only had room-temperature champagne, so we needed to chill it ourselves?
And the champagne bottle blended-in with the wines and we laughed because we thought that this was true about most people and things (they blend in).
And we left Target and came back to the store two hours later and the champagne was cold.
And we laughed when the cashier asked us about it.
And we drank the champagne from sippy-cups.
And you told me that you loved me, but I didn’t listen because you always say things like that.