Tadpole Press

some things, I've decided, are better left as fossils crumpled, shaken things you never would have said

the heat that came in waves throughout our homes, our feet, our minds sizzled like slugs caught on the drying, moth-eaten rind

they say you're only lonesome when it rains something about the gods weeping but I don't think that's true

 the consistency of my dreams    has changed        recently

These tiny poems are freeing because they don't have to make sense. What does it mean to be a gleam in a buffalo's eye? What does it mean to be yesterday? Or a Saturday? What if whatever you wrote made perfect sense and no sense at all?

You may have noticed that I've started sharing more of my writing on this blog. I'll still offer thoughts on the creative process, but those will be interspersed with pieces I've written that are calling to be shared. This piece, I suppose, is actually both.

sometimes when I don’t have anything  to say I sit  outside  and stare    at stars just to remember