Witness me...
Courage in a handful of kindness
Professed soap, a hope sharing in all anarchy?
Has the sense to let a wish bless...

Privilege is my game
Tows of resolve
With anecdote to serve same
Adding but its name, a risen haunt...

Causes control themselves...
Curious was a furious jewel...
Golden sighs of worth, have what delves...
Reasons share, the past; long before a hell...

What, was a quiet existence?
For the rest, of a sojourn...
That is the limit, to unison; amends
Reaching for sincerity, the wish to earn...

Arriving at life's purpose
Saving ideology from proper humanity
Sat in the name, of seldom become a host
Today is more, than a wonder declaring a vanity...

I found that I could not learn to write, until I was no longer afraid to dream.

I am tired of chasing straw haired boys,
Who smell like earth and stability and everything that should be good for me.

I hurl myself like a meteor at them,
crash headfirst and they insist I am more fire rocket than girl.

He picks a girl who looks like him,
And I insist it is not because I am not straw haired.

But it eats at me, persimmons drip just like strawberries.
Why did you pick me if you could never even love me?

I bit into you and
there was nothing scary there,
I had to let you go.
I've always loved monsters more than men.

The song plays.
the air is hot, heavy, buzzing,
my head is spinning.
We wade through
sea of people
I am pushed hard into metal fence,
I pull out my camera,
he kneels before me.

God reaches out his hand to puny mortal girl and
I am Mary's monster.
I am electric,
I am alive for the first time.
Finally the fear does not eat me whole.

It's been a year now, I have not changed. A sweet sailor told me once that poems were the only art form that allowed, demanded this much melancholy and I am none the less tragic. You would have laughed in my face had you seen him and I. Soft, silly boy opening up into bloodied lips. Pressing flowers into his hair, contritely convincing myself I was not the monster you wrote me out to be.

I won't tell you that he couldn't love me, that I could never keep him.

I'm sure you already know. That's how the story goes.

I have not loved anyone since the spring.
I'm beginning to have my doubts that I will ever find that perfect matchstick moment again.
But I'm throwing myself into everything,
trying to scare myself into love again.
What we had wasn't love but god
in the movies that's everything that love was made of.
I don't mind being a bad memory.
I don't mind being that Katy girl.
Because I ******* know we had something special
and I could have loved you forever.
Let me be that complicated girl.

I'm sure she's beautiful, Hubble.

Smoke wafts up from the lounge
among young bamboo.
I am standing on the balcony
backlit from a desk lamp,
cutting the ends of her hair.

The soundtrack of laughter
drowns out the news story
about the Japanese man
who ate a woman in France.
The French didn’t want
to deal with him and
neither did the Japanese.

He lives somewhere here
and has published too many books
for a murderer.

I wish the boy upstairs could see
us from his balcony in this beehive.

He never looks for me.

I am so angry at the aftertaste of his devotion. He lit a candle with the intention of us, the flame will go out in a week.

Others have knelt. Looked at me with those big tearful eyes.
Gazing.

He trembles like them. He murmurs like them.

Yet he does not worship at my altar.

But how can I expect him to? A man who has so fervently forsaken any god?