revisions
Today I Find Myself Afflicted by the Curse of the SwineWhen I try to breathe, I feel the swine standing upon my chest.I rock back and forth, bathroom linoleum hard on my bony knees, trying to purge this curse from my body. I swear to you, I have always tried to lead a swine-friendly life. I try to imagine the list of benign grievances the swine might have against me. I gave up eating meat years ago, even bacon which is really more like heaven than food. But I have coveted a swine. Two weeks ago, at the Lincoln Park Zoo, a pink piglet nuzzled a spotted piglet. They did not know my loneliness; they

Today I left for ...
Today I left for work at 7 amand returned from work at 10:30 pm.What happened between those hoursis inconsequential. Today I craved a cigarette. The harshnessin my lungs. The cool relief of the exhale.The stale taste on my tongue. Eventhe cancer. But I'm not really a smoker, only when I've had a fewand can charm one out of some rogue'sback pocket. Or when I'm tryingto write. Right now I'm tryingto write, but I wish I had some good whiskey and a P-funk.

Poem of the day
Baby, it's been 4 years since I left youhovering there, in Lansing. And you sayI am still the spine that stands you upafter the rest of you has taken too manyhits. That I still haunt you, still surfaceas you try and massage the money jittersout of another woman's back. When I almostbelieve you've taken your anchor outof my side, your scruffy, familiar voiceis reminding me that you were the child geniusand I was just a smart kid and you scored2 points higher than me on the ACTand you were the poet back whenI loved you and you taught meto scrummage through poemsand search for anything trueto anch

writing prompt and exercize
Prompt: Quickly pick out 12 words from the titles of books on a nearby bookshelf. Use them in a poem.My words:UnifiedClumsyThievesBreadBedDownFieldAngelsSourcesNeonPleaseLogicMy Poem:I come from a family with clumsy thievesfor angels who bed down into cloudsof cocaine, a field of neon buildingshaloing their heads. A family of white breadlogic, unified by dust. A family prayingPlease to sources of insomnia they can't see, to uncanny stillness in the night sky.

poem of the day/ sort of a revision
BetterLove, the sun is becoming a scarce commodity.We sleep to work & take our sleeping short. I hear our bones groan as I resurrect from bed,your sleeping face grimaces at my movement,my suggestion of morning. There must be some ceremony to better this. My aunt would know the correct herbs to grind with mortar & pestle,the correct points on the map of our bodies to press upon with firm, warm hands. Perhapsshe would dab peppermint and lavender oilson our temples. Perhaps she'd chantor hum, somewhere deep in her vocals,beneath small talk. Perhaps, perhaps,perhaps, Love. But I've only one remedy