2010
09.23
Smush, making jelly out of humanity.
Squish, juicy lubrication out of society.
What a beautiful and strange thing it is
to be anybody at all.
I know that she’ll live forever,
she’s an artist that doesn’t look forward.
She can take eternity out of nothing
and paint the night time metallic velvet.
For the arms of clouds dancing across the aurora rural
sunset, a creamy blue sky set that falls in love
with being such a horrendously, deceiving treachery.
She’ll find herself an artist that doesn’t look back,
he’ll sing to her dreams of painting murals out of colouring books
and digesting tomato broadcasting signals.
It’ll be the greatest love of the century.
2010
09.22
One walked by
with perfect lips.
Another with perfect legs
pushing her along
the damp littered street.
One walked by
with the most exquisite lines
framing her eyes.
There was another one
that had a little bit
of everything.
Another one stood there
on miraculous chubby legs,
long black hair.
She was glorious
cool air.
My eyes brightened
in assent.
They were crawling
all over the street.
They were hanging
from the straps
of the subway car.
Alone,
in pairs.
They stood there
or walked by
my bane
and my
salvation
in the creeping boredom.
of an unfair
world.
2010
09.21
“I don’t have much left in me”
he said when the sky crashed in
and collided with the pool, creating
infinite vibrations, worlds smothering,
apartment complexes shaking at the root,
leasing agents bouncing helplessly
like fresh popcorn. He wondered if the
autistic kid in the water with the yellow noodle
saw all of this, the rapture,
but he seemed so wrapped up in his floaty toys
that nothing- not even the end of the world-
could interrupt his play.
2010
09.20
I want to hide under your story like a poor homeless person’d hide under their
newspaper tent on a sidewalk grate in winter. I want to hide under it cos
otherwise I feel like I’d be doing things to my head like homemade lobotomies
with pre-chilled railroad spikes. I want to hide cos I’m forever and ever doing
stupid things like sexting my ex-lover a pizza delivery porn scenario and then
when he doesn’t respond I sext him again cos I know he’s offended by the cliche
and expects so much more of me.
So I sext him something about when it rains it pours, but instead of rain I put
pussy and instead of pours I say come and get it.
Mama hates to be ignored except when she’s hiding under stories that remind her
of fucking or stories that remind her of humans or stories that remind her.
I am going to get a tattoo that says don’t forget in French.
I am going to get a tattoo that says fuck you in French & will tell everyone it
means sister.
I am going to get a tatt of a smaller tatt of a smaller tatt of a smaller tatt
of a smaller tatt ad infinitum until I can’t stand how clever I am anymore or
any of the live-living things I have to do day in and out as a human.
Then I’ll grab that spike out of my freezer. I will lick that spike and it will
be icy and hard and taste like all the hopes that hoboes carry in their
bandana-packs. It will taste spicy, railroady, hobo-hopey, and I will remember
everything I ever tried to forget ever for a brief second.
2010
09.19
I felt nothing
after reading your poem
probably my fault
definitely not yours
since you are the writer
and I am the reader,
the receiver,
the fucked,
not the fucker,
but really I felt nothing,
maybe it was the size of your cock,
or that you didn’t give it your all?
I asked,
“where’s the power?”
and all you could do was laugh,
shows how much you take your writing
seriously.
I wish I had felt something,
I picked up your book,
logged onto your page
for the reason of knowing,
but came away dry,
untouched,
like the girl at the party
too ugly to fuck.
I felt nothing
after reading
your poem.
definitely not your fault.
all mine.