blue

would a kid draw a circuit board these days

or stick to the traditional
subjects like rain or ocean fish?

when I was a youngster,
one would say, I didn't know

what I wasn't capable of yet.
so I drew the entire solar system

without knowing the names
of all the planets... earth, mars,

Saturn, Pluto... maybe Mercury
on a particularly clever day.

but would I have known
a battery from a capacitor

or a mother board
from a graphics card?

I don't think I even do today.
I don't think I could tell you

the difference between Neptune
and Uranus other than their names.

red

we're thinking apples,
strawberries, tomatoes,

bell peppers, cherries...

but specifically the kinds
of cherries that come in jars

and go in drinks.

green

a T-Rex tramples across the page over a field of green lines

littered with little triangles
of slightly different shades

chasing a shiny beetle
towards a forest of trees

where all the leaves are money
and all the fruits are pears

while a turtle waits patiently
for the head of lettuce

to roll down the hill and into its mouth.

halves

to tell us we have the same hazel eyes as each other should have evaporated after landing.

but your benign comment,
though gentle to the ear, pierced
my consciousness.

already, I have been feeling
only half myself
since I met him.

feeling, since then,
that I have gone a lifetime
with only half of everything.

only half of the joy
and half of the pain of being
separated from someone else -

even when I know
we'll reform, back together
as soon as the day ends.

before, I thought I felt
normal and whole, but
the illusion has melted

like microwaved honey,
it pours out all over
the place while still sticking to me.

your comment about
our same hazel eyes
is the sticky part.

everything else about us
is different, a bit askew.
slightly different form each other.

although some would say
complimentary. they would say
we are like coffee and chocolate -

both bitter but in their own
unique and pleasant ways
and when paired together

they form a satisfaction
that nothing else can match.

tapped

tapping the keys and tapping my feet to the beat

that's playing in my head
that keeps changing

depending on the song
playing on the laptop

of the person working
in the office next to mine.

a laptop-tap-along but
I can't make out the words.

psa

I deactivated Twitter. If you ever see "somethingkaty" on Twitter, it's not me anymore. 

on empty

my tank is the shape
of an oversized mug

and it's already empty again -
after refill, after refill and another

so I'm searching for road signs
to the closest refill with my empty can

on a sunny summer Wednesday
after everyone else has already gone

leaving me with no one to walk 
through the last hour alongside 

burning

I am burning through

Changes too quickly to count

These forest fires

divining

sometimes I force the words
and end up starting a poem 

with words like awaken and purchase
to describe an itchy scalp 

caused by cheap shampoo
imported from Japan

in an expensive looking bottle
shaped like a jar of honey

not today

mental health supply chain issues

result in crying at work, chocolate for dinner,

stubbed toe, piles of dirty laundry,

unwashed hair, and four unfinished books

in a pile by the bed with dogeared pages

and dreams of being read.

not my day

when I am still

there is still a storm inside

day 4

getting people's names wrong

day 3

step back, this isn't

about me. it's my turn

to be the pillar. make that

what I'm about.

day 2

I like the ability

to change the words around

after I've given them life.

If I could wield that spell

for spoken word too

what a powerful witch I could be.

day 1

yesterday we travelled through time

together we landed in my city

and once we got out, got on the highway

heading home, away from the city

you said you felt like home

this far from home, finally.

anniversary

why do I hang on to 

his disgust for my grief

for you?

why make excuses 

for someone who should have cared

more for my heart than his selfish need

for denial?

blue detail

seven out of ten

fingertips warmed by a cup

on an autumn day

peaks

chickens at Blaze farm

don't think highly of children

they prefer lettuce

night sounds

over sounds of us

with background music playing

croakers croak louder

beachcomber

the ebb of ideas

no output, not a problem

the tide keeps flowing