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?

The flowers between our yards
were bleeding pink from their white petals

as if the pink were dripping onto the
dry leaves under my feet

when I plucked one out to remember you.
I told Brother-man it must have been

the most beautiful color I had ever seen.
Surely this has to be a joke,

you, God and his paintbrushes must have
hurriedly whipped up something in the dark

when I was up watching shows about
husbands and fathers who ****.

Then I spilled my tea in your chair
on Christmas Eve. How appropriate.

I even let out a yelp, not uncommon
for you, you dear, sweet old woman

who couldn't hear her own thoughts,
too stubborn to hear the thoughts of others

but always willing to listen.

I found a dime from 1967.
How many people
touched it before me?
How much time
did it spend
in my wallet or
the register before.

Which register?

What did I buy?

How many people
will hold it now?

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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

Out of all the thoughts
in the world
you had to occupy mine.
We're the difference
between holding hands
with fingers interlaced
or platonically placed palms.
I want you to know, though,
that I would leave
Victor Laslo's sorry ***
for your alcoholic one
in two seconds flat.

I met a man a year ago
who was so sad
he said he'd **** himself
if he couldn't find
a reason to live
when they let him out
of the ****** bin
we both inhabited.
I check the obituaries
every day
for a little town called
Coffeeville,
and I haven't seen his name
yet.

the girl in the red skirt
is starting to get a cold.
her nose runs in her sleep
now and the sheets
are soaked with sweat
from the nightmares
she can never remember
or the fevers she's trying
to break.
she's a helpless little
elephant's child
and she'd give anything
to be beaten
by her family
again
and
again
and
again
until she's finally
had enough
and decides to
search for the answer
of what crocodiles
eat.

There's a poem in my soul
and if I don't let it out
I'll spontaneously combust
all over my living room.

oh my god I'm so sorry

I just threw up all over you!

How silly of me,
how utterly absurd
that boys make me
throw up and up and away.

Stop it!

When one gets too close
I shake like a
kicked puppy
and I know it's because
a monster crawled under
this little girl's bed
and never came back out.
He waits to grab
my ankles with his
boney hands,
a matching freckle
in the middle of
our palms.
He is part of me,
this angel's kiss
(as my mama calls them)
and so long as he has it
so will I.
Me and him sittin
in a tree
until one of us
falls off the branch
first.

Call me already
set me straight
do what you have to do
to get me to
notice
you
from across the room
with your
perfectly manicured
sideburns.

Are you content?
Not happy. content.
There's a difference.
I want to know if
You can get
Through a day
And get by with
Enough gumption
To rest your dark, Irish head
And not think about my last words:

******* ******* *******

I didn't mean it like that.
I WANTED to *******.
I SHOULD HAVE.
But it came out
I hate you
Please don't contact me ever again.  

I didn't mean it like that.

I didn't know what to say.
I mean what is there to say
After he tells you

1. I don't want to marry you.
2. I don't love you anymore.

Are your gray suede shoes in tact?
Is the freckle on your hand dancing with anyone else?
Do you think about my dog?
Have you learned anything?
Are you content?
Not happy.
Content.
There's a difference.

When I was little
the hair on my neck
would stand on end
when I dropped my
pencil in the hopes
that I would discover
a hole in the floor
for me to crawl through
and discover something
better than the first grade.
Every time I was disappointed
to find tile and hairballs.

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.

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.

God here it comes again,
sneaking up on me
like a snake-*******
just waiting for
my bare, unshaved
ankles to make
their ashen presence
known.
It coils around
my neck and
my eyes pop
out of my head
one at a time.
It's done with-
his arms are
outstretched and
he's climbing the floor
for the gun
his hands still
rest on.
I turn to run down
the stairs like
I'm in the pitch black
field, running from
a monster who died
a long time ago.
What else is there to do
but fall to your knees
and ***** all the
butterflies and
chicken nuggets you can
hold?
That's where I'm left.
I'm getting off my knees,
slowly but surely,
so there's that.

Here it comes again
the water moccasin my mother shot
when I was playing in the lake
has come back to bite me in the ***.
She stands, there, in the photograph
she had framed to sit on a table
between two big, uncomfortable chairs

my brother in boots on the wrong foot
Maggie, precious little bird, was even
too young to have to wear a shirt
in this picture

and there in my mother's fingers
dangling feet away from my
warm, little body
was a five foot snake
who still wiggled a little
when his nerves
kicked in.

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.

Tonight I am missing:

the attention
that comes along
with I love you

the smell
of his neck

and the strength
to get over it.

Is there a word
in the english language
for the moment
you finally realize
there's no turning
back and things
are going to change?
Swollen, it's not him.

I can't.

Watching a grown man
weep in front of a
church full of
hypocrites
is the hardest thing to do.
Sometimes it really
isn't worth it
and I can't be mad
about it anymore.

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.

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.

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.

Nothing stirs in my heart.
The paper sculpture was
held together with
spit and glue
gobs and gobs
of it.

Three blue candies in the morning.
One blue, one yellow, one white candy at night.
Keeps me regular

Will it ever stop
raining? The streets are flooded
and so is my heart.

I knew a man
with eyes so blue
you'd think he was blind,
and he had done
so much heroine
that he couldn't flex
his arms out all the way.
He had four teeth,
one in each corner of the front.
His name was Charles
but he went by Tripp
because he was a III,
but he's really a trip.

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.

You rolled off of me
and I felt nothing.
You wanted to keep
it casual,
and I felt everything.
A simultaneous relief
and destruction in
three words.

I don't want that.

I want to be loved
unequivocally and
there is nothing
casual
about that.

When we dance to no
music the freckles on the
backs of our hands match.

So goes love. That's how
you know the scales are balanced.
Come back now, you hear?

How difficult to
give a child
a name!
I am sure that
when I have
babies
they will never
have a name
because there's
no way I could
just look at it
and tell what
correct
variation of
letters best suit
the poor things.
And they will
be poor.

He will always be the one who got away.
He will always be the one
who occupies my thoughts
more than anyone else because
he will always be the one who got away.

He doesn't even know.
Or maybe he does and
wants me to suffer.
In that case,
I still deserved it.

Edit:
I am
still
deserving it.
Present tense because
I put him through
hell and back, and
he will always be the one that go away.

Who was the first person
to sing and was it a
rush of ecstasy or
melancholia that
came upon them?
Think about it.

If I am Earth then
you are sky.

Tonight
I
am
chasing
the
sunset
to
get
to
you.

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.

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.

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.

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