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.”

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Facebook posts from January 11–14, 2015.