Typewriter

No mistakes
Only blue oceans and red fire trucks.
I want to love and to love you back, but that’s a mistake.
That’s a foggy summer day and a question mark on a declarative sentence and that sentence is
something will go wrong
I’m afraid I’ll never find owls at night and doves in the morning because
lately it’s only been fish and dry land
when everyone else
found the water. I’m not
the field of flowers for your orchids, I’m the aquarium.
I spell numbers, not letters, and they’re not adding up right.
Wrong turns get me where I need to be, and I’m the
lighting to your
calm.
The path less traveled is well worn
and I make empty, pretty words
that meant the truth
of the matter is that
nothing is the matter because everything is wrong.
I draw my motorcycles with four wheels because I want to
get there faster and my planes with no wings because
I don’t know where I’m going.
A forest full of trees? I’m a forest full of grass because
it’s the little things in life.
I’m the bright blue sun
the drop in your faucet
an ocean full of orange
and a past of mistakes
that pave the way back the to future
and forward to the dawn.

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Broken Moon

The young rabbit grazed on the ocean grass, silhouette lit by the full moon, making the black hair look gray in the silver light. Its little nose and little whiskers twitched as its mouth hovered speedily over its meal. Its brothers and sisters were somewhere munching in the field, too, but way beyond, still hidden in the more dense thickets of grass. The sea water lapping near their furry paws frightened them. This young rabbit was brave, though, and like the feeling of the breeze on his fur.

Suddenly the rabbit’s head flicked up, whiskers tense. He stood stone still, anticipating. He could sense something, in his tail, through his tiny body. Seconds passed and nothing happened, so he let his guard down, nose bouncing up and down once more as he ate the grass.

Then once again, every muscle in his body tightened. His eyes rose toward the sky.

The moon, ripe and yellow, shrunk. Like a telescope retracting, it wound down, down, waning until it was a pinprick of light in the sky. The ocean trembled and the breeze whipped angrily across its surface.

The pinprick of light in the sky exploded. Confetti ribbons of bright white streamed through the night sky – but only just for a second. Just a second of starlight tendrils, bursting from the dot of light into a terrifying symphony of lights kaleidoscoping through the sky. Then the moon quickly regained its composure and grew back to normal size.

The rabbits hid in their holes and didn’t come out until morning. The few people who had been awake late enough to see the sky on fire were dismissed as crazy or imagining things in their sleep.

But they knew what they had seen. For just a few moments, the moon was broken.

Car Crash

This is more poetry/stream of consciousness but sue me I want to tag it

I’m going to write a bunch of stuff down because lately what’s been going over and over in my head is

I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this

I’m in church and all I can do is stare at two things
the first is the exit sign
glowing green
It’s one of the only inviting things I can see except for the second thing
which is you.
They’re talking about car crashes and I know exactly what you’re thinking but you have no idea what I’m thinking, I’m thinking I got in a crash, too. My bones are fine. My toes, my neck, no bruises, no scrapes, but that thing in my rib cage –
I wonder, will that next girl you love think, it beats in twos, the syllables of your name, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-
but it stopped. Crash. I crashed into you when you swerved and we veered and spun off to the side and de-railed, I hit a wall and I hit it hard.
I crashed into your eyes and the way guitar chords and two voices blended into one, when I was thinking, I wish we were just our voices slipping through one another because voices can’t collide and snap and tear and run into each other and then run away.
I’m crashing into the way you turn and whisper into your friend’s ear, something about the harpsichord that I know you think is funny – that used to be me, my ears, but ears, those can crash into each other too when they hear things like it’s probably for the best.
That thing inside my ribs cracks, crashes harder than lightning bolts against the concrete when the kids go to the altar and your eyes, eyebrows always raised and listening, brighten. Because you’ve got a bright future and there’s hints of those pink bows and unbrushed hair in it and you’ll raise them up on your shoulders and tuck their curls behind their ears and kiss their foreheads with the love in that thing inside your ribs but it will not be with me.
It will be with someone who wasn’t afraid to give the thing inside her ribs. No matter how much I wanted to. But you deserve better. Mine doesn’t beat it seeps. Too many crashes. Too many could have beens. Too much wasted beating for others who crashed into it when it was whole. I wish I could lose it in the crash. Doctor, just take it out. It doesn’t work anymore. It got swallowed up in memories and now all I do is chase my yesterdays, because in my yesterdays I hear your laugh but in my tomorrows all I hear is the echo of when we said goodbye.