collate.

we play with the words we hate,
make lists of them in meetings,
when the fluorescent lights
turn our skin a zombie blue,
when the voice of the sales director
starts sounding like a Charlie Brown adult.

moist
collate
ginger
macaroon

we list the words that make us feel funny inside
words that make us laugh like 11 year old boys.

tender
benevolent
tip

we are all of a sudden in fourth grade
us thirty and forty somethings
filling in spread sheets
mapping out plans for the next five seasons of books.

nub
moist
reconcile

words that make our skin crawl
then it’s onto phrases, the ones we hear over and over,
the things we should pay attention to

“don’t drop the ball”
“this books really got legs”
“lets think outside the box”

we sit at the oversized table,
our legs crossed and shirts tucked
eyes darting across the room
we smirk,
adjust in our chairs,
look away.
and I think about a bed of words,
how some days I would like to fall into one
lift my arms,
kick off my shoes,
and drop,
back first
onto

bittersweet
pomegranate
wave

I wonder if the words
would feel like their meanings,
would water be soft and silky,
rippling across itself as I touch it?
or would they all be sharp, black, pointy things?
the T’s poking my back,
the S’s pushing against my ass
little black and white lumpy pillows.

some days I wish I had more edit buttons
you really put your foot in your mouth
always the next day it’s,
was it something I said?
was I too honest?
did I say too much?
because words are always falling out of my mouth like awkward craters,
proving every time that they are not my friends.
I wish they would hurt more on the way out
like gravel
like rocks
like boulder
cut my tongue to shreds
so all that could fall from my lips was blood.
maybe I would learn then,
keep that story to myself,
the one that’s always on repeat,
the one about my brother and jersey,
the beat up blue car and the dog we never let inside.