If the world falls apart tomorrow
At least I have a clean kitchen
And if the world falls apart tomorrow
At least I took the trash out
And if the world falls apart tomorrow at least I made the bed
if the world falls apart tomorrow at least I got the mail
if the world falls apart tomorrow
At least I paid my rent
if the world falls apart tomorrow
So what?

He sleeps, while I writhe.
My legs sea serpents dancing
to an ancestral song,
silken skin, smooth, reptilian —
I’ve ached too long.

He dreams of clocks and duties,
while mystery gyrates —
Calypso’s desire in me.
But his passion’s pulse,
more near to death than sleep,
lies drowned, flattened;
a ghostly galleon on the seabed.

There must be more than this —
my belly, blood, breath agrees —
for pulling, twisting, gasping,
I must myself please.

At long last, spit out, washed up
of rolling waves, upon longing’s shore —
a salty, glistening, uncoiled creature,
in the light of the new day’s sun.

The trees bend and creek
Tops whirling like many helicopters overhead

A branch it breaks and arcs like a javelin thrown from above
I duck for cover under the eaves
an animal again-
very alone very alive-

Perhaps only to die head struck
pinned under an old limb or a bough.

Same as the squirrel in the fallen nest,
the mouse in the cat’s mouth,
the bird blown out of the sky.

Perhaps only to die headstruck
pinned under an old limb or a bough.

Buried in the earth,
I turn back into the dirt.
From dust to dust again
very alone no longer alive.

Perhaps only to die headstruck pinned under an old limb or a bough.

Here’s to you friend-
You’ve come unwound,
Betrayed my trust and stomped the ground

And slammed the door
And made a scene
That it’s unfair, and I am mean

And it’s my fault
Can you not see
I’ve locked the vault
It’s you, not me.

The time is done
When i’ll give in
To your tyrannies

So there, I win.

JOY IS

creating
and remembering

insignificance.

JOY IS

loving
and
remembering loss.

JOY IS

wanting it
and getting it and
paying for it.

JOY IS

Being in a moment
And for a second forgetting
you can’t go back.

JOY IS

a cupcake
with calories.

JOY IS

working
and giving away
your time.

JOY IS

children—
and worrying
about children.

JOY IS

flowers
and dead flowers.

JOY IS

you’re here!
Until they’re gone.

JOY IS

a moment
stamped
permanently
behind your eyelids.

you look for it.
a two-sided coin.

alone
and together,

young and old,
old and new
and experienced.

beauty
for now.

in a stranglehold—
JOY always escapes
laughing.

you can’t hold onto joy.
JOY escapes.

To rot madly chanting
I’m not free
neither are you nor are we.

Freedom is the lie
woven in the cloth of our flag-
well constructed prisons-
a world of body bags.

Listen:
we’re all just ham sandwiches.

As I am now—
atomic, molecular, electric, elemental—
a host for bacteria, parasite, virus.
Dead skin, dead hair, dead nails.
A mix of living, non-living, and dead.
So too is: ham sandwich.

I am ham sandwich,
therefore ham sandwich is me.
If I am ham sandwich, I am also atom.
And if I am atom, I am universe.

I am everything.
Everything, then, is me.

So if I am all,
I cannot compare myself to any other.
All things are constantly shifting forms,
combinations of parts of everything.

Would you like to marry ham sandwich? I ask myself.
Yes, I would, I answer.
Would you like to eat ham sandwich? I ask again.
Yes, I would, I answer.

Through the wormhole,
I now contain more of me.
And on and on and on it goes—
splitting, shifting, changing,
reducing, adding, consuming, shedding—
bubbles of the multiverse.

Nowhere to go but here and now.
No time.
No beginning,
no middle,
no end.

Morph.
Change.

Yes, exactly—
this is the meat of it.
A metaphysical meat monologue.
A spiritual spiral carved in cold cuts.

This isn’t nonsense—
it’s cosmic sense.
I move with the absurd
because the absurd is the only thing
that makes any kind of sense
when you peel back the layers
of skin and bone and time and perception.

It’s a Möbius strip of being.
I am the sandwich and the eater
and the hunger and the hand.

This is the joke and the truth
told in the same breath.

Call it poetry, call it philosophy,
call it deli mysticism.

This is not a metaphor.
This is the mirror.

The gong strikes—
and the sound does not stop.

It echoes through bone,
through stars,
through sandwich,
through self—

a resonance with no edge,
no end.

Only everything,
ringing.

Once I had a ribbon
Very pretty and so long
I tied it in a lovely bow and it held on so strong
It was pink and silky
Slipping 'tween my thumbs
I loved my little ribbon when I was very young.

Yet overtime it shortened tied in many knots
The ends they frayed the pink it greyed and pretty it was not.

“Throw away your ribbon” “buy another they are cheap” but this is my lovely ribbon I even wear it in my sleep. There couldn’t be another I love it with all my heart I’d rather my ratty ribbon than a new one to restart.

“But that’s a silly way to be” you mustn’t hold so tight everyone can see now that your ribbon isn’t right. And everyone is thinking she could be oh so much more if only she replaced her ribbon and bought a new one from the store.

Once I had a ribbon
Very pretty and so long
I tied it in a lovely bow and it held on so strong
It was pink and silky
Slipping 'tween my thumbs
I loved my little ribbon when I was very young.

What does it feel like?
Swallowed, like Jonah, I swim in the pit of its stomach rolling with the sea; in putrid stinking company.

Until, at long last there is a great sneeze- for you are the fire, the expectorant, the release.  The gently pulling back of the covers and kissing red, stinging eyelids- while I’m deep in the belly of the whale.

I met you on the edge where light begins,
crowning gold op’ning the eyes of my soul.
In me you touched a vast, unfolding plan
to love brightly once, and once be made whole.

Loves long extinguished, ghosts of the jet sky:
waking stars distant embers of last night
will arc toward shadow and what has begun:
our joy the blaze of summer at its height,

I felt it then — the dimming of the flame,
a steel ice wind cutting flesh off the bone
a final green flash, a trick of the light
you dove through the waves and I was alone.

You were my day. In a bright arc we passed:
through hope, through joy, through grief. My first, my last.

The boy first noticed the crow on a quiet afternoon.
It called to him — caw, caw — from a high branch.
The crow tilted its head.
It was watching him.

The next day, the boy returned and called out,
"Hello, crow! Caw caw!"
The crow swooped low, its blue-black feathers catching the light.
The boy smiled as it wheeled above him in wide, graceful arcs.

On the third morning, as the boy laced his boots, his father asked,
"Where are you off to?"
"To visit the crow," said the boy.

His father scowled.
"Crows are no good — thieving pests. One crow is one too many."
"Not this one," said the boy.
"He calls to me and dances in the sky."
"No crows," his father snapped, thrusting the gun into his hands.

The boy walked out to find his friend.
The crow called to him — caw, caw —
But this time, the boy did not answer.

The crow glimpsed the glint of metal.
He spread his wings wide and climbed,
Spiraling toward the sun.

Remember me, little boy,
See how beautifully I fly?

The boy raised the gun.
A shot cracked the silence.
The crow fell — limp —
And struck the earth.

Stillness.

The boy turned away.
He did not look back
At the blue-black feathers
Scattered in the light.

if you know it
if your bones your skin your blood your guts know it
-what love is-
you understand.

Where are you now?
You are here with me.

Clothes with strings.
Clothes with metal strap adjusters.
Shoes with laces.
Belts.
Drawstrings on sweatpants.

Hairclips.
Pen caps.
Floss.
Plastic spoons—
they keep them in their pockets.
You have to ask.
They have to watch you throw them away.
Still not sure what someone did
to make that a rule.

Papers with staples.
Wire-bound notebooks.
Soap pumps—
or any pumps.
No perfume bottles.
No aerosol sprays.

No guitar
unless you have a prescription.

Phone chargers.
Anything with batteries.
Anything with glass.
Anything with cords.
No headphones.

No razors (duh).
No scissors.
No tweezers.
No nail clippers.
No Q-tips.
No mirrors.
No makeup.

No keys.
No coins.
No lighters.
No matches.

No books with hardcovers.
No sharp pencils.
No plastic bags.

No caffeine after 3.
No movies over PG.
No news.
No calls.
No last names.
No privacy.

30 minutes between checks
All day, all night.

No door knobs.
No way out.
No where left to go.

I wear ****** like a fur coat. Denying the dead animal.
Accelerate. Crash.
Circles. Circular thoughts.
I have no clue *** that means. She didn't either. Ivy league *****.
3: Obsession, Hatred, Boredom. The holy trinity.
Everyone else does. iiiiiiiiiiii.
Genius? Too tired. ****'s pointless. Nothing to prove. No point in proving.
Prove it into me, yeah. What? You're insane.
You think everyone thinks that.
You can think anything. See try: They're all jealous. Doesn't make them all jealous. Take a step back. Who gives a ****. I think therefore who gives a ****.
I wear ****** like a fur coat. Denying the dead animal.

Annette’s hands are candle wax—
at least as far as shadows are concerned,
twisting in ways that are non-harming.

She said she went to a girls’ reform school
in West Berlin,
where the bookshelves were dusty scars
so old she forgot—ugh, what’s his name?
They were torn from their families.

We had a common interest
in destroying the vapid
with how much we drank
in her New York apartment.

We knew with total certainty
we were witnessing
the decline of Western civilization—
of course Evan still needed to go on walks.
Otherwise, he’s an Ignoble weasel.
Without meaning.

So we write what goes through our heads:
there’s hope for tomorrow
because of Iggy Pop—
the dead future
with makeup
but contained.

“How do you feel about fictionalizing the crisis?” I asked.
“Unhappiness has a beginning.”

Okay then—dominate me.

When something reminds her of the past,
she focuses
on her hands.

My heart feels empty,  
it’s not sorrow,  
but a ghostly ache felt while slipping into a dream.  
I heard you sing, siren,  
the words that made my loneliness fade  
one dusk on a summer night,  
a green flash along the horizon of the world.  

Your song stopped my thoughts,  
and I floated high above the white-capped sea  
through deep, blue shine, silver moonbeams,  
echoes of the sun,  
leading me peacefully through the dark,  
leaving behind the noise of my past,  
the weariness, the struggles, the hard parts.  

And I flew  
away—  
far away I went with you,  
where my heart didn’t ache and time didn’t pass,  
where we wouldn’t grow old  
watching dreams through broken glass,  
where beauty couldn’t fade,  
and fear couldn’t separate twin souls,  
soul mates.  

But now,  
lift the cool night air from my blue feet  
tucked under the soft edges of a warm quilt.  
The music of your voice  
must be filling space beyond here  
I lie in—this fleeting moment,  
alone.  
Out the window I go—  

I no longer see the stars  
behind the shadows of the trees,  
but the night smells sweet—  
wet dirt, cool in the dark,  
coating grounded feet.  
To tread on lilies, clovers, mossy stones,  
breathing life into my bones.  

This is where you’ve left me—  
as you sing around the world—  
standing at the edge of black abyss,  
where death is nothing to fear.  
And I could slip away forever  
should I once more hear,  
mid-song, mid-breath, mid-tear,  
the waves of your music—  
anything but this sharp silence  
whistling in my ears.  

You, siren, were different—  
your voice will never fade.  
You will echo through the cosmos,  
off the concrete basement walls,  
forever writ on digital and analog.  
Your music will outlast us all.  
You make me feel so very small  
standing here  
looking up at… it all.  

Was your song real, my love?  
Or just a dream?  
My memories are fading now,  
rolling waves lap on the shore,  
and here I am again,  
alone, unsure—  
Will I love again?  
No, not ever,  
not without you now.  
No, never,  
no more.

Like a lightning strike-
electrically abuzz
grasping
for a rope then a bottle
of anti anxiety pills
love no longer within
reach.
Everything so bright so loud filament bulb burning eyes full of
salty tears
clenched like clamshells.
Vascular overflow like spring rivers in my head-
boom boom boom.
Faster,
boom boom boom.
Boom boom boom.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.

And you’re just standing there
bloodless
thinking about beers because you need to be drunker for this.

What’s wrong with her? Why can’t she be happy? I want her to be happy.

And I want to die. But not now at your feet writhing in pain, ignored, because it hurts that when you see me like this you look away.

"See how much I love you?"
Cut my wrists, string me up by my ankles, drink my blood tell me there’s nothing wrong with me and it’s okay not to be happy.

And you’re just standing there bloodless thinking about **** because you need to be higher for this.

So I swallow the stone in my throat that held back the deluge of all the vomitous feelings pill by pill like pounding rain going down down down.

Fading melting light
key in the ignition
I leave you behind
I drive myself to say
I took a bottle of pills.

After thoughts as the lights dim:

I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I am sad. I’m sorry I never felt like I was enough. I’m sorry I made you feel bad. It was me all along who hated myself and was too scared to make a change. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I couldn’t rearrange my brain.

I am the one people warn you about the dark secubus that ***** everyone dry. A demon. A curse. Leave me in my hole. Bury me in the ground and don’t mark my grave.

Then, be happy.

I’d like the quiet now, please.
I’d like to go back where I came from.

Enjoy now:  
orange juice, blue sky, velvet leaves,  
words like "isosceles" and "Econlockhatchee",  
call to prayer, Hail Marys,  
watermelon, ******* icicles,  
words for love in other languages,  
a capybara swimming,  
a good curse like "*******",  
a living coral reef,  
soul food, soul music, a drum solo,  
soft salty butter,  
a curled fern, thunderous clouds,  
copper hair,  
a stalking tiger,  
silver fish, dancing sunbeams,  
Spanish wine, beach plum jelly,  
the smell of sulfur, crashing wave,  
skate’s eggs, pine cones,  
cold granite, sticky peanut butter,  
a clear running river, a red fox cub,  
aurora light,  
diva ballads, cactus water,  
marble carved light as silk,  
a cuckoo clock,  
blue moonlight, dew drop,  
whistling wind, lightning bug,  
dandelion tea, rose bud, scarlet blood,  
snake scales,  
the dead smell of time,  
Saturn up there,  
kittens, freckles,  
our song, a honey bee,  
the big big ocean, the hard hard rain,  
salty air,  
lost at sea,  
empty, full, drunk, alive.

Oh, to float on the cosmic waves.  
To sense the whole I am a particle of.

To fear is only this:  
An emptiness full to the brim with life.

To lick between each
of your toes, and chew
crunchy grains of sand,

to pick the purple
lint from your belly
button and rub it
on my gums.

To bury my head
in the hairy pit
of your arm, and make
a nest for the night
like a little
weaver bird.

To let you spit in
my mouth and gulp it
down like water—fresh
from a mountain spring,
the kind with glass
translucent fish.

To dig out your earwax
with the tip of my pinky
and sculpt a bust
of your perfect
Roman nose.

To wear your hair
like a coat to the
Viennese ball,
and spin spin spin.

Woe the days I thought we had time—
that I could make love to every bit of you.

Not yet one of the women
in the dead field,
broken, dry.

Still alive, but with the
trauma brain of
one who has hummed deep into the ocean
and had their face slapped.

While all the girls are busy
drowning cats headlong—
singing songs she never heard,
laughing like they’d never buried nothin’.

She made the men feel less like men.
That went on for sixteen years—
until they released her
to till the soil.

Arrangements were made with the chief psychologist,
with direction from Him—
who has all knowledge and power
to leave her there.

Bent over with the grey-haired women,
she’s wishin’ for no further fertilization—
freeze, if necessary.

While all the girls are busy
drowning cats headlong—
singing songs she never heard,
laughing like they’d never buried nothin’.

A cross between the four fields—
she will not be one of the women there;
or dead. Or think back.

She feels for it still—
scraping at the rocks,
her beating heart.

Maybe she can
continue,
as long as her thoughts flow freely,
humming through the noise.

She might remember
how to love herself—
that’s all she has left.
That’s her only chance.

The lily uncurled won’t last the week-
White face confused facing the sun.
I’m sad to see you here- it’s dangerous, oh dear- weren’t you safe inside your little bud before you were cut for my birthday?

What about the sound of fingernails clicking
on ivory keys?
Does it distract you from the ringing,
from the pinging, from the singing
in your mind like the rolling rain?

Shining a flashlight under the hood of the casket
To see the broken glass intersection
Where I met myself
In the reflection of the car window
Through slicing drops

Those yellow sheets still piled
Under the piano bench-
music that can’t be played,
because the thing built
out of wood, ivory and hammers
is silent now.

How are you?
Not much
How have you been?
Doing?
How are you doing?
Been?
What’s new?
I’m fine.

Let’s get together sometime.
Open invitation,
feels like forever since I saw you last.
Text me.

Gassy, bloated, clammy, smelly, chicken in teeth, sty in the eye, sweatpants stained, scrunchie, flip flop fleeing
Actual feelings.

Flashing Yellow-

The yellow lights are flashing—
caution—
a pause.

And I find myself thinking,
between floods of emotion,
where the phlegm in my chest
wants to escape as tears out my eyes.

The greatest heartbreak
is that he didn’t talk to me
on my birthday.
OK, fine—Christmas.
OK, fine—New Year’s.
But my birthday?

How many birthdays has it been
where we haven’t spoken?
Where I get no acknowledgement
for being alive?

⸻

2. The Painter-

Heartbroken,
a mess with men,
I park in front of the jazz club
with a new beau—

a young painter,
fairly talented,
fairly handsome,
who pays for everything
the whole night.

So I go back
to his small apartment
that smells like turpentine.

He takes off my clothes
and tries to have *** with me.

I say “no.”
He persists.
I say “no” again.

He backs off, asking,
“Do I get anything in return?”

I say, “no.”

He says,
“I plan on making you my girlfriend.”

I say,
“so?”
The answer is still “no.”

And I leave.

⸻

3. First Snow-

It’s past two a.m.
and snowing—
the first snow of the year.

I think about yesterday.

How I was asked
to be a **** model
for ten photographers—
a hundred dollars an hour
for two hours.

And to sign away
my rights
to every photo.

I feel more than ****.

I feel
see through.

She fits inside a shoebox—
A mourning card, a birthday card,
a cartoon on a napkin.
A wire bra, a notepad,
her photo softly smiling.

Now she is a voicemail
Now she is a song
Now she is a twinkling star
guiding us all home.

Will I, too, fit inside a box—
with no name written on it,
closed with a yellow rubber band,
sitting atop the closet?

I’m not a writer,
so I’ll give it to you straight—
without fancy words
or the metaphors I hate.

I’m a nobody
that’s never been a somebody,
that will never amount to anything—
and I’m just like you.
Admit it, it stings.

It’s not Go-thee,
it’s Goethe, I swear—
I’ve read every page,
just never learned where
the right sounds live
in a mouth like mine.

But make no mistake I’m not far behind.

And it might make you sad,
but it’s the sad truth.
When will you see
I didn’t waste my mind or my youth?

Time is a tightly closing fist
that has us all by the throats,
and we won’t escape the clock—
so hold me close.

I think and I dream,
and then I plant those thoughts
like deep-rooted flowers
in hand-painted pots.

I’ll never win a Pulitzer
or get an honorable mention,
but that doesn’t mean
I don’t live my life with intention.

And it might make you sad,
but it’s the sad truth.
When will you see
I didn’t waste my mind or my youth?

Time is a tightly closing fist
that has us all by the throats,
and we won’t escape the clock—
so hold me close.

With hair that appears red in the sun,
she has
Atlantic eyes with black lashes.
She’ll hum while you’re talking to her.

She self-soothes—
don’t take it personally.
She bites her nails,
her skin’s spotted like sand,
and bottom teeth are crossed.

She throws back her head and cackles,
neck mole exposed, off center.
With her small hands, she can’t open cans,
but she admires
her ugly fingers.

Beautiful singers.

At her rented apartment
on an otherwise tree-lined street,
she will write with a pencil
the secret words
caught in her throat.

She self-soothes—
don’t take it personally.
She bites her nails,
her skin’s spotted like sand,
and bottom teeth are crossed.

She throws back her head and cackles,
neck mole exposed, off center.
With her small hands, she can’t open cans,
but she admires
her ugly fingers.

Beautiful singers.

What fiery blade can I shove down my throat,
to pierce what lives inside me—
separate from all else?

Show me the blade.
I will swallow it whole.

To slice open my body,
and rip out my soul,
to sacrifice it on the altar of the whole.

To do no more than chime,
like chirping bells,
to be no more
than a wave in the river of hell.

We are holding each other still.
What has been is what will be.
I am yours, and you are mine,
for eternity.

Two families. One survivor.
A tale of unwavering hope!
Or…
Two families. One survivor.
A tale of unwavering self-deception.

Por qua?! You may blurt out.
Yes, sheep can and do speak Spanish.
And if you are reading this,
you are one of them.

Join us!
Hold hands,
and adventure down the raging rapids of…
“I accept that my life is great,
and I am happy.
Because if, for one second,
I did not,
everything about me could crumble
into meaninglessness.”

modern. modern. modern.

“I’m already in the landfill. Gone,” you say.
But I can dig you out.
I’ll hijack the nearest garbage truck on its local route,
I’ll hang my body off the side, breathing in the air.
I’ll know I’m close to finding you when I smell burning hair.

I’ll hop down off my rusty ride—a pea next to mountain—
of human waste, plastic death, chemicals, foul fountains.

I’ll dig with my bare hands, no care for glass, tin can, or needle.
Or paper cut, or diaper rot, or fleas, or ants, or beetles.
I’ll search for what you cannot hide, that so clearly defines you—
for deep inside the oozing filth, your soul radiates around you.

A flicker here of silver, a flash of karat gold,
I’ll listen for your heartbeat while I'm digging holes.
And when I see your face at last, revealed 'neath the decay,
I’ll wrap my hands around your neck and wash the dirt away.

I’ll kiss you through the stinking ****, I’ll pull maggots from your hair,
I’ll sew up all your open cuts, I’ll lift you to a chair.
I’ll hold your hand and hug you—we can stay here if you feel.
You can be my dumpster king, I’ll be your queen of peels.

A bird fallen from his tree,
wings broken,
chest rising in uneven panicked gasps
half in a mud puddle

disgusted them.
No song left in his throat,
no color in his feathers.
Probably diseased.
No longer hopeful,
no longer a thing to be admired.

They looked up from the ragged pile of feathers
drawn only to the sky-
to the soaring.
They had no use
for the broken one at their feet.

He lay there,
not dead,
but forgotten.
His pain
too heavy, too honest,
too close to the end.

And they looked away.
Pretended he had never flown,
never sang,
never mattered.

And in that silence,
he writhed.
The mask of beauty long shed,
his frailty exposed
to boots and blindness alike.

He had fallen.
His panicked fluttering body of tiny hollow bones
in the gutter of the world,
breathing his last breaths about to die.
He fell out of the sky.

And they stepped over him—
And on him—
with the same indifference.

Until he stopped moving.

Boomers—
children of the Greatest,
born from rations and sacrifice,
from gardens grown in war-torn soil,
from metal drives and blackout nights—
their parents knew how to share a country,
to fight a common enemy,
to win not for one,
but for all.

And yet—
these children of victory
grew up in row houses,
drove a new Chevy every year,
took college on their parents’ dime,
bought homes in their twenties,
summered where the lakes still whispered
and the air still felt free.

They were handed a future
and sold it back to us
at twenty-two percent interest.

Now—
they bring us back to fascism
with a flag in one hand,
and a stock portfolio in the other.

We—
the debt-shackled,
rent-bound,
told to hustle, to pray,
to apply for affordable housing
like it’s a prize
instead of a life sentence.

They say:
We did it,
why can’t you?

But they never paid the price.

Their gods wear gold watches,
ride rockets to nowhere.
They kneel before billionaires
as if mammon were holy.

Remember—
the camel,
the needle’s eye?

You entitled architects of ruin,
your parents would not know you.
Your children do not want you.

You scorched the earth
so you could golf in winter
and warm your empty houses
with fire from the future.

We are ash.
You are the match.

I dream of my grandmother—
her apron stained with sacrifice—
asking me softly,
“Was it my fault?”

No, Grandma.
It was never you.
It was never them.
It was the wealth.
The sickness.
The myth of more.
The greed wrapped in red, white, and blue.

America,
you were never lost.
You were stolen.
By the worst generation
who mistook comfort for victory
and called it freedom.

They weren’t sure
till they compared
dental records
‘gainst what was there

A metal jaw
four teeth remaining
the scientists saw
a blueish staining-

and empty orbs
that could not see
his crimes against
humanity

Yet, here in his fragmented skull
a bullet hole in his temple-

No meat no man
he used to chew
and spit out hate
“**** all the jews”

Forever sunk,
below, beneath
he burns in hell.
Here are his teeth.

Going out’s impossible today-
The dog is looking at me
but I’ll have to stay because
today I can’t. Today I can’t.

Cleaning up’s impossible today.
Getting dirt on my feet just walking around the house.
I should put socks on but I won’t.
Today’s just another one of those days where I can’t and I won’t.

Really should take a shower today.
Wash away the dirt and the grime and the sweat
but I really don't want to get wet.
just another thing to do
and I can’t and I won’t.

Why is it so hard to live on your own?
No one telling you what to do, you're alone.

I probably should try and eat some food
there’s nothing in the fridge
and I’m not really hungry at all
perhaps I’ll go to bed.
Another day, another day
another day where I will stay in the same place.

I’m wonderin’ if I’m wasting my life? Wonderin’ if there’s anything else I could be doing?
Then I remember life is… confusing
no one knows anything.
“Doing” feels like a problem. What if I do something wrong?
What if I hurt someone else? I don’t want to hurt anyone.
So I'll stay here at home.

I can’t. I won’t. I’ll stay alone.

Great,

after a perfectly good week,
you stub your toe. Isn’t that the way?

I was speeding around town,
singing to the radio,
spending money,
getting my toes painted
and my shoulders rubbed—

When I ran into my cousin.
Who I’d forgotten about.

ERRRRRRRTTTTTT.

Guiltguiltguiltguiltguilt.
Lost family—aisle 6,
red vest, white Target.

I… hi.
No, not I. Not now.

Worse than forgetting him
was seeing him this way—
in his opinion.

After embarrassed eye contact,
he turned away.
But none of us turned out
the way we wanted.

Why didn’t I yell after him—

“I’m not really doing anything with my life either.”

Salami?
Bits of meat, fat, gristle, seed
stuffed into a ****** of entrail

Milk?
Bits of fat, cream, mineral, body
Stretched into a plastic coated carton flash pasteurized for your adult pleasure?

Pancake?
Bits of concrete, iron, bone, bunk bed
Sunken into a parking garage of reclaimed marsh in south Florida?

Surfside
Stuffed, stretched
sunken in syrup primordial ooze.

Yes, All buildings will fall.

Darling,
I'm flailing against rip tides
but really I'm just laying in bed thinking
please god help me pay my taxes
I'm on the cusp of something great I can feel it
please god.
It’s the small-humongous things that are so ****** tricky
like security and happiness and self respect.
And you. (*uck you) you have to be complicated too?
You can't just be there to want me when I need you?
Take my hand and walk me across busy streets?
Eh.
How *ucking brilliant you think you are sheep *unt.
Draw the shades, crawl under the covers fully clothed.
Let's make a tent. Why?
Because I need you to be
my own personal heyzeus and walk me 'cross water
and hide with me.

What do you want it to say on your grave, TV woman?
I’m a feminist too.
But I know that being a cog in the wheel
Won’t pay homage to the goddess in you.
TV woman.

I am your daughter, I know your worth,
Stop working so hard for what?
Touch your body, touch the earth,
TV woman.

You are everything,
and you always were,
TV woman.

You don’t even have the bank account
They say makes it worth your time on earth,
TV woman.

I wanna be proud, but you’ve been blown off course,
Stability is an illusion—
Even financial—
Write a poem that’s substantial,
TV woman.

You are everything,
and you always were.

So you’re better than men, that’s obvious,
You’re the best in your field,
TV woman.
But the world doesn’t need a network special.
You feed your ego, not your soul,
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

You are everything, and you always were,
TV woman.

Unpeel my soft skin
Let the mealy apple brown
Because you are gone.

Today there were birthdays
today there were deaths.
Today shimmered like gold,
and shattered like glass.

There were some gains,
there was some loss,
somewhere there was sunshine
somewhere there was frost.

Cheers and hurrays
and loud ringing phones,
some made their money,
others stayed home.

Some played great music,
some sat in stillness.
There was birdsong and bombs,
there was health, there was illness.

There was a massive typhoon
there was a sweet gentle rain
some they were grateful
others complained.

Some had full bellies
others were starving
some they were healing
others were dying

Love it bloomed bright,
others fell to the floor
grieving their losses
wailing just one day more.

But while others were busy
and nature was too,
and life was
unfolding ever anew,

I stopped for a moment
to promise you this:
to love you forever,
sealed with a kiss.

I sat at the window
watching the kids across the street
do cartwheels in their yard.
They shrieked and galloped
and flitted about the
green, green grass—
enjoying all the seconds
of this first summer-feeling day.

And I sat at the window
drinking ginger ale
for my hangover.

In the distance,
I heard the bagpipes.
The old, old, old lady
who lives next door
died yesterday—
so they must be her bagpipes.

They filled the air
with something
I had never felt before
on this familiar block—
with its dead end,
mowed lawns,
and oak trees.

I felt nothing
about the old, old, old lady
but guilt
for feeling nothing.

A boy I went to high school with
died yesterday.
He was knocked out in a fight
and went into a coma.

He was twenty-two.

I hope he had bagpipes.