tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20118352110267801952024-02-07T11:16:26.134-08:00Let it goericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.comBlogger288125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-58778761809005383302013-12-08T20:39:00.000-08:002013-12-08T20:39:03.361-08:00Things I Hide In Blue Paint or Under My Halo<div>
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Road construction. And the cheap wine that makes the things </div>
I put in jars relevant. </div>
The way you smell after sex, like soccer. </div>
Dipping my toe in curiosity</div>
Arthur Dimmesdale in 6th period.</div>
High school finger bangs and astrology (especially<br />you, virgo assholes).</div>
Pine candles just in time for christmas. Being drunk </div>
for christmas.</div>
When you die, handing your mom a kleenex. I'm sure she's</div>
beautiful.</div>
Flying kites in college. Wearing sweat shirts with stains.</div>
Subtle light on anatomy - iliac spines for days.</div>
Naming constellations. Naming constellations</div>
now. </div>
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Smoking pot on July nights. </div>
Shame. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-66253491427669893072013-11-23T09:30:00.001-08:002013-11-23T09:30:19.837-08:00Horoscope You have lost faith in something, MoonChild. <br />Cut <br />loose, let gravity forget, (even just for a second). <br />Hold soul music in your hands, let those bones<br />
absorb that. <br /><br />Let the milk turn your coffee<br />turbulent and shoo them flies away. Don't let<br />'em eat your skin. <br /><br />Oh, Moon baby, find the rhythm. Make shit<br />shift, slowly:<br />
the quiver of summer leaves and the plates<br />rubbing - lovers in sweat. <br /><br />Let those big words crash right into your face. <br />Tides on tides on tides for days. Fight the <br />fault, baby glow, it isn't yours. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-52903927720272570932013-11-18T20:30:00.002-08:002013-11-18T20:36:41.652-08:00Young BusinessBoy at the bar: he <br />
mentions my nose. I know he <br />
thinks about fucking. (make a mark on my bed-<br />
post for the what-ifs. Nick my collarbone with the sex<br />
that could have.)<br />
<br />
Hips like Willendorf, he thinks of a baby on my<br />
arm, breasts twice as big. I am the snake eating<br />
the lizard; woman eating the man.<br />
<br />
But he has had practice with drunk crescendos; he<br />
croons about my perfection. perfection. perfection. I sip<br />
the bourbon - the deep history I need.<br />
<br />
Everything is holy and so<br />
on and so on. And so on. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-48497176209291290512013-11-18T20:25:00.001-08:002013-11-18T20:25:15.231-08:00Forever Young Listen closely to me. One day I will die. <br />
<br />
Let my brothers look through my books first. Even the ones I've borrowed and never returned. This is important. <br />
<br />
I want you to touch my dead face. Just so you can take it with you that it's all real. Yes, her cheek is cold. Yes. <br />
<br />
Someone tell the story of the first day I saw a loon dive.<br />
<br />
If
you have my secrets, please keep them. And one day when you're old, you
can reminisce about this one time there was this one girl who died. How
sad, you might think. And if you remember then, at that moment, tell
the world. Until, put my words in a quiet box. <br />
<br />
Put them in that quiet box with me. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-10793302742785944292013-11-02T09:49:00.004-07:002013-11-02T09:49:54.689-07:00I'm That Kind I am not surprised. I'm the kind of girl who gets rabies. And who breaks
her foot before the race. I'm magnetic in all the wrong ways. I feel
things too much in my bones. I fall in love with all vibrations. I feel
that blue collar catastrophe, personally. I want a sharp hair line and
the kind of collar bone that perfectly spills into shoulders. Maybe beer
on the couch is best. Or red wine in the morning, in a coffee mug. And
stars beaming through electronics. I'm that kind. The ruiner kind.<br />
<br />
Things end. <br />
<br />
ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-78158461069675032432013-10-30T20:36:00.001-07:002013-10-30T20:36:58.178-07:00What It's Like to be Murdered by Your MuseFirst, she lets you remember the sun <br />
on your ex-lover's back as you fold<br />
into each other like fresh<br />
laundry near the window.<br />
She whispers. And you, you remember<br />
the contours as he moves like sound-<br />
waves.<br />
<br />
Next, she brings out<br />
her weapon; possibly a shank, sharp<br />
like November nights when frost can slice<br />
you slant-wise along your ribs.<br />
<br />
Gentle and quick-like, she splits<br />
your neck; a cheap smile to an empty room.<br />
    (Brace yourself, baby, it's gonna’ sting.)<br />
<br />
Finally, blood laps against your feet; one last<br />
Tennessee lake as you sit.<br />
<br />
Dying.
ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-51056468781378558602013-10-15T13:28:00.002-07:002013-10-15T13:28:46.760-07:00Indiana Shorebird: Part 1What would it be killing the first Black-<br />Bellied Plover?<br /><br />1871 and for science. <br />1871 and for feathers (possibly <br />
for hats).<br />1871 after migration (for food, <br />
<div>
for sex)<br /></div>
Who doesn't run for sex<br />Who doesn't die for scienceericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-72917106402647273742013-10-03T18:25:00.001-07:002013-10-03T18:25:57.629-07:00 Cherokee & North HighlandAfter pumping gas I realized I had lint tangled in my braid. How many people noticed?<br />
Probably none.<br />
Instead, they saw the sleeping horses inside my chest; only an hour before,<br />
thundering around my rib cage with no restraint.<br />
<br />
Balmy days are best at regarding my confessions:<br />
silent Hail, Mary's until I bleed.<br />
<i> sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry. </i><br />
<i> and sorry to you, especially.</i><br />
<br />
Picking at the black speck in my flax, my soul remembers:<br />
<i> blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs </i><br />
<i> is the kingdom of heaven.</i><br />
And, I might add,<br />
<i> broken are their bones under the weight</i><br />
<i> of grief.</i>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-29469254173707357172013-09-26T12:59:00.000-07:002013-09-26T12:59:34.692-07:00Jellyfish - Post Mortum Three of them stood erect, none<br />
bending to pay tribute to the battered<br />
corpse. <br />
<br />Regarding only the moment (wind, sound, sand, <br />
et cetera), <br />
the youngest started walking first. <br />
<br />
Some rules, they are <br />
different at the sea.
ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-53406925384557807402013-07-23T22:16:00.002-07:002013-07-23T22:22:46.558-07:00On Soft Sand
I was there when night split down the middle -<br />
that sexy divide and maintain.<br />
You know, bubble gum and<br />
pale light and probably<br />
Yanni on the radio.<br />
<br />
No one was looking that time<br />
we stabbed the moose right in the neck -<br />
bleating and lowing and<br />
painful white bursts in the cold.<br />
(didn't we grieve?<br />
didn't we talk about the funeral for days?)<br />
<br />
You really don't know how you made<br />
lines in the leaves,<br />
how the ancient languages came from your fingertips.<br />
You don't know about blue blue and early-morning-fog.<br />
<br />
Should the magpie bring new creation?<br />
Should the ocean give pity?<br />
Should the salt choke you to death?<br />
<br />
Please, let the suffering fill all the balloons and convince<br />
the old city to shut down tight the bars <br />
where people fall in love against pinball machines.<br />
ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-34828366438869176442013-06-11T19:37:00.000-07:002013-06-11T19:39:08.203-07:00And A Million Other Things, Too. the holy ghost told me you found my bones, <br />
broken, <br />
while dragging the sky for scraps.<br />
<br />
he said, <br />
"your words are grass, girl, <br />
stuck between his teeth. <br />
and your hair is wheat in his bread." <br />
<br />
I know. I know, I said. <br />
<br />
I know. <br />
<br />
(and that's what I wrote and sent with him).
ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-14151725734828061442013-05-07T20:33:00.004-07:002013-05-07T20:33:50.017-07:00Dead at Dale Hollow Lake. In Four Parts. Part One.<br />
Fog off the water is spirits, some say.<br />
<br />
But I keep mine in a sunfish<br />
near the cove I've named Paradise.<br />
<br />
<br />
Part Two.<br />
Dead in the lake isn't easy.<br />
<br />
My skin slides off, quick like a silk-dress<br />
and catfish, big as chevys,<br />
undress me.<br />
<br />
They remember the color of my fingernails as the mud sings<br />
Swing Low. <br />
<br />
Part Three.<br />
The crow has found me, right where<br />
the tide said to stay.<br />
My insides are yellowed by the Tennessee sun<br />
<br />
and from somewhere,<br />
I forgive your dog for eating them. <br />
<br />
Part Four.<br />
My grandmother weeps into the water. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-90809662753229485702013-05-07T20:29:00.001-07:002013-05-08T07:26:19.894-07:00I Rolled Those Words in Honey. Remember when I would draw on your face with my words? That one time, a buffalo skull on your cheek. We laughed and laughed and Out West, on our fingertips, stayed put.<br />
<br />
And once, we touched shoulders in an art gallery. Your voice, my childhood stairs creaking on any given night, adjusted the earth with ease.<br />
<br />
Remember?<br />
<br />
And if you're asking, I'm fine. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-89395029833074470112013-04-30T19:32:00.001-07:002013-04-30T19:32:29.564-07:00Marriage. A Love Poem. (23.30)Laying flat against the panes of glass<br />
we will dissect our lungs<br />
to know breathing.<br />
<br />
We will squabble about who cuts who first and where.<br />
We will get excited to unfold the pink secrets<br />
of the third lobe.<br />
Maybe we'll find evening on the lake or<br />
my missing black sock.<br />
<br />
Our blood will remind us of our dads;<br />
what maybe they could have talked about:<br />
wrenches and oil and<br />
"those damn kids, they'll learn one day."<br />
<br />
But we won't.<br />
Our veins will smell of cheap booze<br />
and sex. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-38885672656149608342013-04-30T09:25:00.000-07:002013-04-30T09:25:05.057-07:00Reclaiming Light. (22/30)Let's do that thing where we walk<br />
the turn of our ex-lovers' necks. <br />
And eat the <i>foie gras </i>of our transgressions,<br />
forgetting, of course, <br />
to wipe our slick mouths before we tongue kiss in front of Mother Teresa.<br />
<br />
Yes, let's take off our shoes and throw them.<br />
Possibly into the next county. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-42388339679531806572013-04-29T18:40:00.000-07:002013-04-29T18:40:02.398-07:00It's a Goddamned Shame that I Kick Rocks and You Stand On Them. (21/30)Don't mind me as I listen to the heavy interludes. <br />And you.<br />
You just sit there, stirring your cocktail with the rolled up words:<br />
Pleasure is a thing. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-80126709215228585652013-04-29T17:41:00.001-07:002013-04-29T17:44:38.067-07:00A Three Part Poem. For Sachen. I.<br />
Shirts and skins in the park<br />
and the words about your lungs/legs rifle through the yellow hair of a girl, watching.<br />
<br />
She may have recognized the noise; no way of knowing.<br />
<br />
II.<br />
The spine-curve of the road and me driving it,<br />
seems about right as my lips move your name around.<br />
<br />
III.<br />
There are no rules for this.<br />
Ever. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-88475060021163811182013-04-21T20:18:00.002-07:002013-04-21T20:18:33.032-07:00A Generic How-To. (19/30)Step 1.<br />
God, probably, hates the lighter you use.<br />
If he doesn't, he should.<br />
<br />
Step 2.<br />
No words is best case scenario -<br />
crushed up diamonds. Ingested then<br />
chased with cheap beer.<br />
<br />
Step 3.<br />
Even though I want to say words to make<br />
bluebirds fly off each of your teeth:<br />
I won't.<br />
<br />
Step 4.<br />
Recant. Pretend. And see Step 1. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-7595034709749961662013-04-21T20:16:00.001-07:002013-04-21T20:20:25.224-07:00Dale Hollow. 2. (18/30)Dead in the lake isn't easy.<br />
<br />
My skin slides off, quick like a silk-dress <br />
and catfish, big as chevys,<br />
undress me.<br />
<br />
They remember the color of my fingernails as the mud sings<br />
Swing Low. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-7248544936046546082013-04-21T20:15:00.003-07:002013-04-21T20:15:16.171-07:00Dale Hollow. 1. (17/30)Fog off the water is spirits, some say.<br />
<br />
But I keep mine in a sunfish<br />
near the cove I've named Paradise. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-21211087316827347462013-04-16T19:42:00.001-07:002013-04-16T19:43:19.717-07:00Mad Poem. On Beginning. (16/30)Don't fall in love with me because my jeans fit like<br />
July sweat<br />
and my breath tastes like night-time whiskey.<br />
And<br />
I will not apologize for the delicate curve of my tits.<br />
You aren't asking me to, but I'm telling you ahead of time:<br />
they're fireflies. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-53646042790287164842013-04-16T19:39:00.002-07:002013-04-16T19:39:34.931-07:00Mad Poem. On Ending. (15/30)We both die anyway, so what's the hold-up? And if I remember correctly I'm almost dead already. My heart is yellowed with alley-way blow jobs and my blood is a waning city, old bricks and poison, going straight to this brain.<br />
<br />
I'm mostly done.<br />
My maps are folded with creases deeper than graves. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-6470486392143108592013-04-16T19:37:00.001-07:002013-04-16T19:37:52.640-07:00Prayer to the RedWinged Blackbird. (14/30)You wear the blood of christ on your shoulders.<br />
Prophets can't preen, tiny baby,<br />
prophets can't fly.<br />
<br />
Forgive the dust we create and<br />
feel sorry for the land-bound biped:<br />
<br />
we know not what we do. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-30868990280731472092013-04-14T18:40:00.001-07:002013-04-14T18:40:26.298-07:00Seven Small Love Poems (13/30)1. I would watch you shoot hoops -<br />
and I've never said "shoot hoops"<br />
without laughing.<br />
<br />
2. Smoke. In between us.<br />
<br />
3. We give nicknames.<br />
I give blowjobs and<br />
you pump gas on cold days.<br />
<br />
4. Our books are not in alphabetical order and<br />
our bills are unpaid.<br />
<br />
5. You put salt water on my cuts -<br />
in the best way.<br />
<br />
6. <i>"Did you see his under bite?"</i><br />
"Yeah, man, it was bad, but I've never had better<br />
mac 'n' cheese." <br />
<br />
7. The Golden Record, I'm sure of it,<br />
tells the story of how we met,<br />
wine stains on our teeth. ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011835211026780195.post-44607964510991864192013-04-14T18:18:00.000-07:002013-05-08T17:12:20.230-07:00Thoughts on a Freshwater Mermaid (12/30)I hear you harbor all the bluegills in your blood and you spend your nights collecting gull feathers and fish hooks <br />
too old to use.<br />
Your fingertips calloused.<br />
<br />
I've never seen, but heard, your eyes go on and on with scales and holiness.<br />
The algae has gathered behind your ears.<br />
<br />
Do me a favor and put those arms straight up; let the worthy see the gills that slice, slantwise, your ribs.<br />
<br />
Why didn't life let you drown? ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594504176263533015noreply@blogger.com0