Every day a desire.

The cardinal is a single drop of blood on the birch tree’s white arm.

A long day in a short life.

Don’t ask me what my problem is because you’ll be in for a long answer.

I woke up screaming these words in my head: “Why the FURNITURE am I awake right now!” Only the word furniture wasn’t really furniture. That’s just what my phone suggested I type instead of xxxx.

Another night’s sleep, another opportunity to further define these boob wrinkles.

Hey, when did I put on this turtleneck? Oh, that’s just my actual neck.

How am I? I’m wearing a broom skirt as a sundress. That’s how I am.

That’s it. If my underwear doesn’t fit right, I’m throwing it out. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

I must be feeling a little better because my pissed off is back.

Every time I look at potatoes, I think “Taters gonna state.”

Between now and later, there is nothing but time.

I’ve discovered a private, out-of-the-way place to discuss my greatest hopes and deepest fears. It’s called the internet.

Someone on a Christian radio station just said that God will “supply” me with all my needs. That’s right. Because God is just like Walmart.

I am having trouble operating heavy machinery right now. By heavy machinery, I mean my cell phone.

Last night’s infusion mostly went into the skin surrounding my elbow. Now I have an elbow boobie. For five bucks, I’ll let you fondle my elbow boobie.

I want to stock every closet, cabinet, and cubby in our home with sex toys, then hold an open house. It’s the only way to get someone to buy this place.

I’m walking backwards in an effort to make time go in reverse.

I feel like that ride at the carnival that’s about to break. You know the one.

My hairdresser asked me if I “tucked,” and I said, “No, my penis is invisible.” What she actually wanted to know was whether I tuck my hair behind my ears.

You know you’re having a bad day when you get mad at your chihuahua for not putting her toys away.

In the spirit of us all being one, whenever you accomplish something great, I’m going to put it on my resume.

I just checked the Dalai Lama’s Facebook feed to see if it’s anything like mine. It’s not.

Today when I wasn’t wearing any clothing, my husband grabbed me—not for sex but to do a quick all-over mole check. Thanks for keeping me safe, honey. Safe and chaste.

I think my mother was ultimately a good person who, as Thich Nhat Hanh would say, watered the wrong seeds during her lifetime. To be more accurate, she doused those seeds in alcohol.

I’m pretty sure Hayden thinks my flute is a squeaky toy for humans.

I should go to the bookstore with several copies of one of my poems, paste a copy inside all the poetry journals that are available (Poetry, Boulevard, Tin House, and so forth), then list those publications in my bio as places my work has appeared. Because it would be true.

If we keep calling windchills negative, we’re going to give them a complex.

I feel like the whispering prairie is talking about me behind my back. Grass can be such a gossip. It never learned how to hold its tongue.

If she wants her photo taken, then by all means shoot the messenger.

Tonight I tried to draw a phallus, but it ended up looking like a femur. Long time, no see.

I keep reading “wind-powered organism” as “wind-powered orgasm.”

I just misread the news headline “Unique Lodging Options” as “Unique Longdong Options.”

More and more, professional attire feels like some sort of costume.

On my way home from a meeting tonight, a nice man on the street kept waving and waving at me. It was so sweet. Something must have been wrong with his hand, though, because all he could wave was his middle finger. Poor guy.

My husband just starred in a Google Glass video. I always knew I’d one day be a celebrity’s arm candy.

Something started growing on my nose last night. I think it’s another nose.

I’ve invented a Ziploc Stupid Bag: It’s called the workplace.

The next time you hear someone in Kansas City refer to “the other side” of Troost, your reply should be, “Oh, you mean the west side?” It will break that person’s brain in a whole new way.

My growing-out pixie or, as I like to call it, my bob-mullet.

I really got lucky with my husband. It’s not easy finding a straight man who likes Depeche Mode.

I see my young face in my current face about as readily as I see a poem in a bowl of alphabet soup.

The way to a man’s heart is through his pericardium.

On playing the flute: Tone. Technique. Articulation. Intonation. Vibrato. Breathing. Each of these is needed to make the instrument sing, which in turn allows the body to sing. Today, I got my tone back. Now my body is electric.

My husband goes back to work tomorrow, which will give me more one-on-one time with my chihuahua.

It’s strange being home without my husband. My chihuahua and I are like a tricycle that’s lost one of its wheels.

The yard is dark with starlings.

I am sitting in the dark because the light switch is an inch beyond my reach.

I’m trying to rewrite Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” as “Song of My Gas,” but it’s just not turning out right.

I’m thinking about opening a cuddling business to pay for flute music and poetry books. I need a business plan.

I’m wearing a heating pad as a crown because I have a royal pain.

There should be a setting on this heating pad called “Hell” because that’s how hot I need it to be. The highest setting is “6.” I need “666.”