wax and wane

sequins stitched just
perfectly onto little
fingers that dig just

perfectly into
my skin. i clip and collect
them, marveling at

their tininess, shape,
and color -- crescent moons in
the palm of my hand

rattling around my brain tonight

a vague memory
of Mom bugging Dad about
staining the club house.

things i say all the time TO MY DOG

"NO." "DOWN." "OFF." "OWN BED."
"HOKIE POKIE." "ROLL OVER."
"OKAY, TAKE IT GIRL !"

things i like to talk about

dino-pets, rules, how
grades (and school in general)
are (is) shite, rum drinks,

tequila drinks, bills,
what's for dinner, dental work,
tricks i've taught my dog,

the harm principle,
bees, some kinds of math, and my
technophobia.

the jig is up.

you know that box of
50 banana popsicles
in the bulk freezer

aisle that makes you think
'who in the fuck buys this shit ?'
me. i buy that shit.

digits

it's other worldly.
skin so soft, it is not of
this Earth -- alien.

fingerprints so fine
they are velvet and alive
as they search my breast.

welcome, future.

talkin bout cruisin
sans seatbelt in a soft top
moon rover TONIGHT.