Cody’s greatest aspirations in life are to love and be loved. If he died at his owner’s feet, he would die happy and fulfilled. Considering he is fourteen years old, partially deaf, and embracing Cataracts in both eyes—dying at my husband and my feet is not too farfetched of a dream. Do not mourn for dear Cody for he has a vibrant life full of baby aspirin, glucosamine, cheese, warm, comfy beds, and long walks to inspire him to live. Also, he might not be as deaf as some suppose. When Cody is called and he does not come his deafness could be at work OR his selective hearing. Cody has mastered the art of “Oh sorry, I didn’t hear you,” when he feels what you are asking him to do is not of importance to his life of leisure.

Cody is referred to as “puppy” in our household. My husband and I try to avoid offending our friend by mentioning his real age. The endearing term “puppy” creates an atmosphere for him to feel comfortable acting like a pup again. Do not let the nick name fool you, however. We do not treat him as our child. To say, “Cody, where’s Daddy?” or “Cody, Mommy is not happy with you,” would demean his wisdom from years and injure his pride. No, Cody is our dear and old friend and treated as such.

AND

Coldplay Vs. Radiohead

May your mouth betray your wisdom
May you get what they failed to mention
May your love be your only religion
Preach it to us all

May you lose what you offer gladly
May you worship the time and it’s passing
Stars wont ever wait for you to watch them fall

We’re the smoke on a burned horizon
We’re the boat on a tide that’s rising
Both the post and the pig you’re tying
Put your gun for the blade
Someday we may all be happy
Someday all make a face worth slapping
Someday we may be shocked to be laughing
At the way we behave

May your hands be strong and willing
May you know when to speak and to listen
May you find every friend that you’re missing
There’s no check in the mail
May you end there bruised and purple
Know that peace is the shape of a circle
Around and around you go, biting your tail

Little children, the wind is whipping
Short hands on a clock still ticking
Both the egg and the red fox grinning
His belly full for the day

Someday we may all want nothing
And all together we’ll get what’s coming
Someday I’ll say the world was something
That we just couldn’t change

May your tongue be something wicked
Know your part in the calf and the killing
See straight through the captain you’re kissing
Helm loose in his hand

May your words be well worth stealing
Put your hand on your heart when singing
The choir’s sick of the song but they’ve still got to stand

Biting your Tail

Where the fog flushed out the light

And we were on a mission to reach home before dawn- there

She was whispering to the side of the highway,

Waiting for the opportune moment to cross,

When all was still, just did not seem

Like the best time to move forward,

So we cranked the heat, unaware

Of her shy presence, peering

Through the winding grass

As we almost passed the spot where she waited,

She sprung forward, deciding that

The lights from our car

Made a perfect lightened path

To make it across, and

We would later find pieces of her hair,

Stuck in the front bumper

From our blunt encounter,

And we would think of her lying there

Long after we left her,

On the other side of the road.

I was inspired by Henry Taylor’s “Barbed Wire.” The structure of his poem was one large sentence suspending a moment in time. He was able to use punctuation to draw out the brief moment allowing the reader to be a part of the horse’s demise. I wanted to create a similar moment in time that would stick with my readers and leave them a little uncomfortable. The poem is about a doe being hit in the early hours of the morning and the little effect the experience has on the drivers.

Conditional love, honey-do lists,

Impotence with you, and raging fits,

Leaky faucet, wet dog, saggy tits,

Coupled with our timid tongues and spit.

Dirty laundry, rampant, weak bladder,

Small room, smaller minds or rather

Smaller hearts on the things that matter

Shrunk from box wine and binding blather.

Weight packing, call tracking, lip smacking

Days filled with nothing much but racking

Up discrepancies and packing

Ammo for a later late night snacking.

Failed attempts to communicate trust

The rush of lying, the communal thrust

Of lust at midnight to the tone of hush,

The baby crying to the tune of thrush.

Ah, what wonder it is to be wed,

We dine and choke on this our daily bread,

Land of broken vows we dare not tread

For lack of another promised bed.

God may reduce you
on Judgment Day
to tears of shame,
reciting by heart
the poems you would
have written, had
your life been good.

As society becomes more thoughtful and responsible, tattoos have become more popular than ever. This is thanks to a growing segment of the population that can reason a lifetime commitment to a visual interpretation of a philosophy or concept emblazoned on the ultimate canvas—the one stretched across their skeleton. What were the most popular tattoos of last year?

• Mother’s maiden name
• Wolf howling at yin-and-yang symbol
• Thorny rose vines weaving around neck to form jaunty bow tie
• Access code for bathroom at temp job
• Toaster with piece of toast popping out, the word “freedom” burnt across the face of the toast
• Skeleton wearing a top hat
• Skeleton wearing the skeleton of a top hat
• Marilyn Monroe’s character from The Seven Year Itch and Audrey Hepburn’s character from Breakfast at Tiffany’s with their heads reversed
• Excerpt from poem about motorcycles
• An anchor, to symbolize one’s dream of becoming a news anchor

playing house, the roles of wise father and loving mother. We’ve doused our days with children.

Now, their beds are bare; they are out fairing the world- leaving a rising wind round’ our sails. I’ve seen you pray over their chests,

But I did not hear your prayers.

I’ve seen you naked and wanting,

But I did not know your desires.

I’ve moved within you,

But I did not feel your heart.

I’ve heard you sing,

But I did not hear your song.

Maybe, we knew this all along, married in separate caves- our faith in our spawn.

The emptiness of their dresser drawers, bounces inside our brains. I will not remain.

I look at our sheets, sacred, covenant home-and pack my pillow.

You meet me in the kitchen, I think to touch your hand, but the fear of awkwardness decides against the latter. With nothing to band us together- I make my way to the door. Your eyes to the floor, you nod

And say,

“See you at Christmas.”

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary