Maybe if I could slip into Sylvia's mind, sort out the spices in her rack, alphabetize them and dust them off. Maybe then I'd understand how it's the little things that pull you under.
A friend comes over with a Ouija board.It spells out: Bourbon. Where’s the band?Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.
I can’t relate to your razzle-dazzle, your wish for voluptuous when my symphony is spanx.
I place solitude in a frame on my desk and call it, the one I love.
Understand, it’s never been easy to live, when we’re trying to escape ourselves.
The moon is just another kind of clock
A crowd of drunken lovers. Newspaper hats, new couples falling from couches and love- seats—the pleasure remembered, never the regret.
...look up and see the madnessorganized in the stars.
I escape disaster by writing a poem with a joke in it:The past, present, and future walk into a bar—it was tense.
And everyone wants to read the poem we’re afraid to write.
I wonder if I might be lonelierif I didn't have loneliness
I don’t believe we should carry backupplans in life’s suitcase—they’re too easy to unpack like living a life in yoga pants, so comfortable our hips spreadinto new timezones...
For everyone who never smiled in school photos, for all who’ve wandered city streetsnot knowing the where they were or feeling alone, I’ve packed kindness.
Maybe I’m still the mermaid. Maybe the ocean is your hand.
To suffer together is to suffer with beauty,
Sometimes darknessis the beauty I am made of—
Like the kite that caught up to the sky,painted with clouds, I lost track of it, but it was connected by string, something I was holding, something I could always bring back.
In the corner of the painting of successthe signature is blurred
She pours sugar on her life and drinks the artist’s marrow in the bone of her glass and she lives.
Yes, it hurts to fall— ache, tenderness—but each scar is a sign your system is working.
