I can't put my finger
on what it is
that makes my gut
sour and sweet
at the same time.
I only know that you
smell nice and clean
and you have stains
on your shirt
that prove you're
a working man.
I might prefer a
starched white
collar and a
pair of designer
stays, but at
this moment I
enjoy garbage bags
over windows
and a low voice
that whistles
for dogs.

I go dress shopping
for a dress I'll never wear
to that gala you
invited me to where
Meryl Streep wears
ribbons around her neck
and we call it Patriotic.

I wonder what dress your new date wears.
I'm sure it's plain
and will make do.

You know I make a sweeter
piece of arm candy
than the cure to cancer.

She got a drive from her mother
and culture from her father,
but when you mix the two
together, what comes out
is a ****** little ****
with a bleeding heart and a
nervous disposition.

She'd rather paddle-boat across
the Atlantic Ocean than be
in a room alone with God's Adam
for one second.
A shark is a welcomed death
compared to one excused
trip to the bathroom.

When I read you
my poetry
the words sound
like they're not
coming from my
voice.
It sounds foreign,
barbaric and German.
Plath's stuck tongue
ick ick ick's in my
bleeding mouth
and I have no tissue
to wipe the blood,
so as usual I make
an *** of myself.
If it was anyone else
I could stand to
read it aloud,
but now it's all
Cling-on and
tongue clicks.
I sound cliché,
an amateur, but
isn't that what
we all are?

If I like you enough
you might just
end up in my
poems some day.
It's my way of saying
I think the voice
you use to talk
to stray dogs
is sweet,
and you have a perfect beard.
One cowboy killer
right after the other,
but it's becoming
for you, endearing,
and not a 100
because I think
there's some positive
vibes underneath
that broken rib of yours.

I will stay at peace
with myself this time.
I will be able to stand
myself and you
after a rough day
when I've played
Cinderella on the
porch swing one
too many times
and sang too many
Eliza Doolittle
songs in the
tape player in my head.
I can put them
back on their
shelves, newly dusted
like a fond, old read
when I'm feeling
particularly thick-skinned
and deflective.
Good riddance and
good morning.

Does
anyone
else's
father
remind
them
of
Bill
Murray?
Weird.

You
are
such
an
*******.
I
am
more
than
****.

On my way home
from a wedding
the road was playing
tricks on me.
I couldn't tell if I was going
u
p
  h
   i
    l
     l
or just p l a t e a u i n g,
never really going
anywhere of any
particular importance.
It was so dark.
Miles from streetlights
and greenlights and any other kind
of lights, I turned my shoulder
to yield, but there was no
sign of another car
to make me slow down.
I rolled the windows
down and sang a song
to you at the top of my
lungs because I hate
the way I feel when you
grab my hand in your
passenger seat and
my stomach free-falls
because of your touch
and the fact that you
won't be my boyfriend.
It's a junior high title,
but humor me,
I didn't get enough
love in my childhood.

i can't tell if you
have green or blue
eyes or one blue eye
and one green eye
but i do know that
you make me want
to jump out of an airplane
with and for you.
and now it's 3 AM
and i can't sleep
because you're blue green
eyes burn a hole in my eyelids
when i close them.

You asked me what happened
well I think I talked too much.
I do that sometimes
where I just keep talking
and talking and talking and
talking and talking
about Old Hickory and
the mismatched sweaty guy
in the Beetle convertible.
You were thinking how
I had big eyes the whole time
I talked and talked
so you just said, "yeah, right?"
when you should have said
"Yeah, he's my favorite
president too."

I know there will be
a sweet, sweet girl
who wants to be a
good mother to
your children in the
near future, but
on the inside I
wouldn't be much
older than our
children in that
near and terrifying
future.
Go and find her,
meanwhile I know
there is a nervous,
handsome stranger
who enjoys old movies
and British literature
waiting for me,
and that is what is happening
now.

Fat, sweaty men
in ill-fitting suits
during the middle
of a scorching
Leo August
are the most
uncomfortable,
but not as
uncomfortable
as me when
in the presence
of a Leo who
makes me
sweat, but for
all the wrong
reasons.

It is 7:58 on August 6
and I am in love with
the world.
I tell myself this
because one day I
will feel like
the world has
left me
for someone else.
When that day comes
I'll have the poem
to remember him by.
Everything
is washed in
pink light
like some old
masterpiece.
"If I were an Impressionist..."
I muse, smugly
patting myself
on the back,
knowing I'll never
be able to
paint.
As I'm writing
it's fading into
some unchartered
purple, and
by the time I
finish, it'll probably
be dark,
but the sun
will be back up
tomorrow.

I am
the way
I am
because
that's
the way
I am.

You are
the way
You are
because
that's
the way
You are.

I am 22 years old
and I'm scared of
the dark.
Not regular darkness-
the kind that makes
you question
whether or not
there are people
under your bed
waiting to
grab your ankles
when you run
off to Mom's room.
The shadows on the
wall ******* you
too much to
get out of the bed,
but when you finally
get up the courage
to reach out
and flip the switch
they end up being
kittens and flowers.
How silly of me.

i
am
in
control
of
my
thoughts.
thanks
for
that.

Al Capone probably didn't listen
to the guy's whole story
when he knocked his brains
out of the park.

Stop me if you've heard this one.
You're in a dark theater
groping the air for
obstacles
as you stumble
center stage.
You realize there's a trap door
underneath you,
but it's not just any trap door.
It's dates that you'll
throw up on
and the beginning of bad habits
that keep you there,
and everybody here is your friend,
so you sit down and
hang out for ten years,
for the fun of it.
Then one day somebody
bings up a spotlight.
Just step in it already.

We're
all
just
grease
spots
on
a
back
woods
road.

Too much of a good thing
can always end up
throwing you off.
For example: I've been reading
entirely too much Bukowski
lately.
I wanted to write a poem
about a family sitting down
to Thanskgiving dinner,
and the crazy uncle
whips it out.
Instead of writing a dissertation,
I'll just remind you,
dear reader,
to be thankful for
every single daisy
and every single
beer.
That's the Bukowski talking.

I'll be Norma because I'm
an Old Soul,
and you'll be Joe just because
you're Joe.
However, I would
never shoot you
in my pool.
I love you enough to
let you chase after Bettys
because I know
I'm crazy like Norma Desmond
a lot of the time
and that is just not good for you.
I'm never ready for my closeup,
******.
I don't have a pool either.

Because when I went in for supper
Blonde #1 gave me a look
like I should be ashamed of myself.
Something in the way
she studied my body
made me think I wasn't worthy
of the seat next to her,
you know what look I'm talking about
right?
When someone stares themselves
into x-ray vision and they notice
how much I love myself
(I'm pretty self-conscious about it)
and they're mad because
they don't love themselves
as much as I love myself
so they look at you
funny.

Remember that time when somebody
died and somebody else brought us food-
all the people are irrelevant-
but you complained that the tenderloin
wasn't up to your standards.
Hearing you say such things about
a perfectly acceptable meal
sent me to the place that makes
me a barbarian to my most intrinsic core,
so I grasped the smoked log of meat with
my bare-heads and hurled it into the rain.
Say something about it now-
now that you have nothing to eat.
People say drugs killed him.
You killed him and you still haven't learned.
You killed him because you never
told him you loved him after he ran away from
home that one time or the time after that.
And I believe that the reason
your photographs are always
tinged with a hint of
the most aching and indescribable regret
is because deep down in the
pit of your greasy, swollen gut
you already know this,
so I don't have to tell you.

My namesake went to
"The Big Kitchen in the Sky"
on Saturday.

She "passed in her sleep"
(thankfully).
She was tired and
the look on her face
suggested she was
quietly disapproving of
a boy I had brought
home to dinner
that one time in high school.
I know this look because
I probably slept with it on my face
as I dreamed about
a boy I had brought
home to dinner
that one time in high school.

When I was a child,
I never fully committed
to a cartwheel.
My feet being so far off
the ground unnerved
me.
Supporting myself
on my own scrawny arms
did not appeal to
me.
Instead, I rolled.

I should really learn to do a cartwheel.

I cut my finger this morning and it bled forever.
I came out of the shower holding it,
crying for my mother to come fix it
like a scared little girl.
She fixed it.

I paid money for a book of poetry
by a ***** Old Man.
You love his nonfiction and I love
his poetry.
One day I'll read you my favorites.
It was you who introduced us.
I would not be the person I am today
if it hadn't been for you or Him.
(Seduction by Bukowski, who'd have thought...)

What do you think happens at the
end of Gone with the Wind?
Yes, tomorrow is another day,
but does she ever see Rhett Butler again?
I think he gives a lot of damns about Scarlet.
I think he will always love her,
and what is meant to be will be.

There was this girl
in my poetry class
who always asked
"was that true?"

This is, I swear to God.

A man was working
in a place called
"Pleasant Valley"
and a tree fell on him,
and he died.

Today I feel like
Audrey Hepburn
in Roman Holiday
because
I am a Princess
and, by God,
I will get something
out of this day.

Except there is no
Gregory Peck
to take care of me.
Instead I'll wander this
old Fort alone.

I get more out of
visiting places by
myself, anyway.

Today I learned:
The rifle was an
important key
to winning the civil
war

and that I can
make it on my own-
life, that is,
not a rifle.

I wrote a poem about a
"semi-broken heart"
but ****, it really
broke this time.

I guess I was expecting
my Prince Charming to
sweep me up in his arms,
not tell me there's another
Princess.

I will never smell Basil again
without remembering
how you taught me to
try new things.

I will never read that book
you always tell me to read,
because I do not want to
be reminded of your
tragically similar brain.

I will send you those cuff links
and accept that I will never
give them to you in person.

It feels so good to feel.

One of my favorite
pastimes back when
Spring was Spring,
and not a death sentence
of epic proportions,
was tying a piece of string
to a Junebug's leg.
The hardest part was getting
the restless creature to lie on
its back long enough to
slide the miniature noose
around him in such a way
that when you let go
he would fly around
like Bonnie Blue Butler's
show pony as far as you
allowed his string to take him.

I feel like a Junebug lately.
The process of looping that noose
around my leg has left me
weary and ready for a rest.
My ankle has third degree rope burns
and my wings are getting tired
of flying in exhausting circles.
The child at the end of my rope
is ignorantly unaware of her
imprisonment of my principles.
Or perhaps she knows what she's
been doing all along
and just doesn't have
the heart, guts or brains
to cut the string and let me fly
like the shiny little
Junebug I was born to be.

Do you remember our first kiss?
I try to forget it because
my ticker starts to fracture
right in the middle,
where all my love
comes from,
when I remember how you
tasted like beer and new things.
I closed my eyes out of respect.
The couple next to us
was making out
and you made the
most handsome face
I've ever seen.
Good-willed determination.
You caught me off-guard,
but when my eyelids shut
I saw a Fourth of July grand finale.
They were red and white.
The music was loud and so was
the pulse in my ears.
That was the last night I
hurt myself anymore.
You made me love you and
-most importantly-
myself with that most perfect
and drunk
first kiss.

Remember that time
at the beach.
You were the first one
with your clothes off.
I think you were already
a little drunk
but you would have
stripped down
regardless.
You never had anything to hide.

Because of you
I had the strength to stand
bare-breasted and unafraid
to all of the Atlantic Ocean
and sing about sunshine and having life.
You gave a number of people
the courage to take their shells off that night.
A bunch of naked hippies on the beach
like a flock of seagulls with a little
more heart.
We thought we could change
the world back then,
and I guess we still can.

I guess this means its over.
I told you not to contact me
if you were haply and happily seeing someone else.
I haven't heard from you,
so I guess you are making a go of it
wherever you are in that big District.

Does she know your affinity for public restrooms?
Does she love your little hands like I did?
(Maybe mine are just big?)
Do you call her darlin' when you hang up the phone
and does her stomach fall out of her bottom
when she catches even the slightest glimpse of you
in that dashing tuxedo you're so proud of?

I still have your cuff links.
Those stupid pieces of silver mock me on my bookshelf
next to the copy of your favorite book I still can't
bear to pick up and read.
You said to read it to understand you, but I don't know if I want to-
understand you or read it, that is.
You told me to return them when I was ready.
I'm ready, but you're nowhere to be found.
What happens now?
I'm convinced you're the one I'm supposed to
put all of my money on, and
You've always been a betting man.

Sitting at the counter waiting for my cheeseburger and fries, I noticed her.
It was the first time I felt like really eating a cheeseburger and fries
Since you looked me square in the face
And told me:
You didn't love me anymore.

She is beautiful, I'll give her that
But she's sitting at a table full of men
Burly men, not your kind.
What did she see in you?
What did I see in you?

What was her name?
Surely I remember that.
It was this name who caused the break up heard round the neighborhood.
She with her long, sun kissed-hair
(mine is short and black)
And her skin is bronze like a native Brazilian  
(I am translucent, save for my many freckles)

Come on, you know it.
But then my food came.
And then it didn't matter anymore.

what can you do
with a broken heart
but sit and listen to mendellsohn

and wonder about why
they didn’t love you anymore
or why they can sit three feet
away from you on the porch
you used to canoodle on
and see you are
crying and not say
anything.

who the **** am i
anymore
that i actually write poems
to you

My uncles are good men.
They can run businesses and
fix air conditioners, but they
lack a certain compassion.

For example:
My uncle-the small one
is angry about a problem
only encountered in this
land we call free.
He had to tell 100 people
not to shop at a certain
store because he is a
spoiled little brat.

Suddenly my brain starts
to drift into the other things
I could tell 100 people.
I could tell them I love them.
I could tell them there's a sale
on at the mall, but why do you
have to tell 100 people that
they shouldn't buy anything
here because you have
Napoleon's problem.

His mother is dying in the back room.
Tell 100 people about all the things
she did in 82 years. Tell them
she should be sainted for all
the injustices she faced so you
could tell 100 people how little
beauty you see in the world.

You're my favorite
Libra, and always
will be.
Anytime I hear that
song about peaceful,
easy feelings I will
think of you.
Anytime I feel like
no one else knows
what in the world
is going on and
think about how
you're the only
daisy on earth
who sees everything
for exactly what it is
I will miss you.
But most importantly
anytime my blood is
pumping and your
blood is pumping
I will love
your curly head
with all the blonde
in mine.

Imagine my shock when
a delicate little red bird
flew almost hesitantly
into the bay window of
my mother's house and
childhood home.
Shock isn't the word.
Because I knew the bird
had broken its neck.
It's inevitable.

Nothing ever deserves
to die alone, so I went
outside and looked for it.
Squalling, that if you didn't
know any better,
would sound like a rousing
bird refrain.

The remarkable thing
about a bird's song is that
as humans we cannot tell
what they are singing, but it
sounds heavenly
regardless of whether
or not it just broke its neck
on a window.

With a belly full of bran
and home on my mind
I look to my left.
The contents of his notebook
and the scribbles tell me
this man is sad.

Probably the saddest
I've ever seen, and that's
saying a lot coming
from me.

I want to shake him!
I want to tell him that I am
in this voluntary prison
because someone succeeded
where he failed, but hopefully
these failures will be a success.

He can't see this now.
He won't take his hand down
from his eyes long enough
for me to look at him.

To see that all is not lost
quite yet.
To see that Scarlett O'Hara
was right when she said
"tomorrow is another day"
after the love of her life
walked out on her without
giving a ****.
Tomorrow's tomorrow is
just a day after that.
And a day after that.
They're just days.

I want to smile at him.
Look at me!
I have life.
You have life.
We all have a little life.

I play a game with my
beast of a dog.
I say, "Squirrell!"
and she bolts down
the perfectly landscaped
avenue of trees after
the soot colored
critter.

It's tail electrified in
the socket of fear scuttles
up the nearest tree
except this morning
it got slowed down
and my killing machine
clamped down and
before I could beat
the poor animal out
of her locked jaw,
it crumpled to the
ground broken in a
way so inhumane,
the sight of the blood
curdled my stomach
like a glass of cool milk.

None of this is true, mind.

I'm a spineless poet.
Because instead of
saying what I mean about
not being able to save you-
about all your blood-
about those merciless
and invisible jaws
of death clenched around
your throat making a
mess of all things.

One day I'll stop writing in metaphors.

I'll never forget her as long as
there are motorcycles.
When I pass one I offer a quick
prayer to the Harley gods
hoping she stayed with her new
beau, and divorced the sorry
SOB who prayed, yes, preyed
over her helpless body and
foggy mind.

She is sick! Leave her be!
You only hear about that kind
of nightmare on the scrambled
90's ****.

(She has ways to **** him, though,
she told me so herself.)

Swear to my higher power,
sure as Dizzy is the
Queen of the Road,
she'll have a way.
She always finds a way.

I found a spoon in my garden.
Could you even call this a garden?
The planters are all full of
pine needles and stagnancy.
Even the bench I'm sitting on
is rotting and covered in ants.

Anyway this spoon was barely visible
among the dead leaves and dog ****.
Not rusty, save for the edges that had been
knicked by a lawn mower at some time
and then bent perfectly
down the
middle.

A memory of playing superheroes
disrupts my study.
Someone was trying to prove their
strength by bending it
"with their mind".

Eventually we tired of our
mind's lack of capabilities
and used brute force to
bend the dreaded spoon
but the celebration was nonetheless
sweet after being able to bend
our mother's cutlery.

Back then the garden was tended.
My mother put us to work
and my
"secret garden" was born partly
out of my imagination and
a lack of reality.

My mother called one plant
"lamb's ear" and I didn't
argue because it was the softest
thing I had ever felt or ever will feel.
Did she make that name up?
Surely, she wouldn't lie to me.

And now that lamb's ear, like
everything else is covered in
a thick, itchy layer of pine straw
and stagnancy. To let the plants
even begin to heal from their
prolonged exposure to cold,
mistifying darkness I would have
to scratch through the
allergy-inducing tentacles.
Push them out of the way.
Dig up the dead, dry earth,
plant new seeds and tend to them
arduously--all while wondering

why couldn't my family just
take care of what they had?

but then I notice this spoon.
I've gotten carried away again
and now I forgot to write about
what I meant to write about in
the first place.

It's not healthy to let things rust.

I can’t write about what I want.
If I do they’ll ship me off again.
They’ll lock me up and throw away that
key.

I deserve to be shipped off.
I deserved to be hanged, drawn and quartered
by the burliest of executioners
with a rope of braided silk
sliced with the epitome of a knife
and I hope my innards spill out
like gut colored ribbons and streamers
(celebrating my suffering)
and finally tied to the four horsemen of my recovery
pulling in four different directions.
Four different ways to “go”.

I don’t know who to believe anymore.
I am not a bad person.

Still not.