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.