Irrational Being

she wakes to lavender
pooling in all her fleshy,
sorry nooks.

she had the dream
of all dreams last night:

staring through a dirty wine glass
like a drunken fortune teller
she saw life as it could be
by the softening glow of
holiday lights in city summer.

somewhere far from here
for the first time
she was good enough.

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My neck’s grown tired of always
holding up all the darkness in my head
but I am accustomed to backstroking
against this current; the absentminded
muscles I’ve developed tell me so.

Once I was a baby,
once I didn’t know the ache of unhappiness
but only the forgettable way my small mouth
formed words no one understood.

When I turned into a woman
my heart went all soot and damp earth.
People made it so. The ones I chose to love in fact.
Each unhinged my ribcage and stuffed it with warm deceit.

I’m a modern day Medusa
stuck staring at unwell-adjusted me,
busy chiseling the corners of my mouth
into the slightest of smiles.


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Nicole Marie:

I’m over at Hasty’s place today as part of the amazing #BeReal series.

Originally posted on hastywords:

My #BeReal guest today is Nicole Marie.

Nicole is my favorite poet.  She writes things that whisk me into other worlds.  BUT it was her picture that first drew me to her.  Her tattoos and the stories they told me about her.  She is a storyteller both with her words, her dress, her hair, the pictures she takes.

Now before you think I am too totally in love I will ask you to fall in love with her too.

Be poetic.  Be real.



What am I passionate about?

I’m almost ashamed to admit I just hurried into our kitchen to ask my husband this very question. “Writing, running, image,” he spouted off before my brain could even begin to conjure up any possibilities (perhaps more proof that he knows me better than I know myself, and in turn is oh so perfect for me).

I’d never thought of these…

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And Don’t Forget to Love Unconditionally

my grandfather came to me yesterday
he was hiding in between the beats
of my son’s sweet cries

hello, hello, hello

quit counting breaths
quit weighing the strength of
his grip on your fingers

I am taking care of things.

I was a child once,
he says.

I am a child now, I think.

my son looks up and smiles at nothingness,
his hollow mouth is valley wide

I imagine my grandfather
whispering firm instructions:

be happy
be healthy
go easy on your mother

I kiss the sky and whisper back
hello, hello, hello

I miss you so.


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When you are most still is when I see you best.

There are blood vessels in your eyelids that are
shaped like diamonds and the slope of your nose
is something all its own (I’ve shook my head in front
of the bathroom mirror enough times to know it isn’t mine).

I listen closely to your resting breath and
it hums softly and consistently as summer evenings;
occasionally it shifts and for a moment is the
whooshing of an ocean wave.

I place a hand to the curve of your back
and wish for more time – always, more time.
The thick, pink flesh above your elbows
is my contribution to this world.

I can’t fit any more life in me,
I’m so full of love for you.

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Nicole Marie:

#BeReal. It all starts HERE.

Originally posted on hastywords:

Welcome to the #BeReal series!

Over the next month, I am showcasing several unique people.  You will judge them.  That’s okay.  And it will be natural for you to do that.

I put together this series because teens everywhere are jumping on this #DontJudgeMe bandwagon.  Well, I think the trend needs some context.  The hashtag #DontJudgeMe seemed to come from nowhere.  But it spread like wildfire, and was used millions of times in a very short period of time!  If you don’t know what I am talking about, just Google “#DontJudgeMe” and you will see thousands of teens making #DontJudgeMe videos. You can read more about what I think of the challenge HERE.

We live in a kaleidoscope world where we’re all different.  We are living art.  Being viewed and critiqued by those around us.  We are quickly assessed and categorized.  We are judged by everyone we meet.  That’s how we work.  It’s part of…

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Letter to Someone

Dear You



rotten, impossible you


my bones are tired as the

corners of my waterfall mouth.


I scream at walls instead of

your crumpled cardboard promises;

I call on the projectionist to

turn off the lights in your eyes.


If you’d only

remove stone fingers

from flowered ear canals,


If you’d only

uncurl the fists you

shake at nothingness


maybe then you could

reach out long enough to feel

how brittle I’ve become in your wake.




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In a world so quick to judge, just #BeReal

Nicole Marie:


Originally posted on The SisterWives:

This is a first for SisterWives – not only are we on trend, but thanks to Hasty, we ARE the trend – yesterday, in response and outrage at the #DontJudgeMe tag (where people post ‘before and after’ pics of themselves in an Ugly Duckling transformation to show their (now) levels of beauty and acceptability), this amazing lady created a new hashtag, and it’s one we should ALL use – #BeReal.

Hasty BeReal SW

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Her mouth is wildflowers

but her tongue is too tame for its own good.



She was raised up in a climate too hot to keep

the skin from melting at the edges of her eyes

and then the world was only horizontal,

so that she never saw the days rise and fall

but shift hazily from right to left, left to right,

like the pages of a magazine.


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what if she disappeared
quick and clean as a rainstorm

would you still love her when
she is little more than earth?

perfume stale on a necktie
rosemary and basil fat in the kitchen

these things aren’t tangible
like her hands on your mouth

wheeling through the seasons
with the windows rolled up
isn’t really living, she told you

four arms, four legs
two hearts, one home
these are the roots of us

waste the days on fleeting laughter
on the way she looks at the end of the night

put on your best suit and
go puddle jumping

it won’t matter like
the way she smiles in the rain

if she wants snow in July
disembowel the Egyptian cotton pillowcases

tear down the silk curtains and
she’s queen for a day

bask in the way she ties a
perfect knot around the
neck you kiss when you’re sorry

the way she glides across the
living room and calls on the help

because when she’s gone
when she’s really, truly a memory

you won’t ache for things,
for money well spent, for her rosemary

instead you’ll keep her best in the
all of the jeweled spontaneity

in the way her body felt
so light in its blissful carelessness

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