I'll throw up if I don't write this poem.
I'll lose my keys again over and over
until I throw up some more.
If there's anything left, you can have it,
but right now if I don't tell someone
about the 6 foot 5 woman with the
blue penciled eyebrows my brother
saw at work today, I'll toss my cookies
I really will.
I I I I I I I I, she bellowed.
me, she answered back.
Selfish *****, I repeat
focus on glasses,
focus on anyone but yourself,
Mrs. Maneatin' Butler.

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.