i can't go to bed
without hearing those words
pour into my ears
like a bittersweet goodnight

i walk around
with that song in my head
that puts to words
the things that i'm feeling

i scribble your name
in all of my notebooks
like a schoolgirl's crush

you are the air
swirling around my lungs
but i'm just another penny
in the dollars you make
singing
to girls like me

Your voice has settled
On the taut film
Of my ear drum,
Like an echo
It howls,
But I've hummed it
Into a soft whisper.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

Here is a glass of water from my well.
It tastes of rock and root and earth and rain;
It is the best I have, my only spell,
And it is cold, and better than champagne.
Perhaps someone will pass this house one day
To drink, and be restored, and go his way,
Someone in dark confusion as I was
When I drank down cold water in a glass,
Drank a transparent health to keep me sane,
After the bitter mood had gone again.

I am a package
Full of lies
And years of careful
Deceit.

I am the wind
Roaring, howling
In the night, for
Everything that isn't.

I am water
Dripping, slowly
Down soft warm skin in
The dead of the night.

I am a scream
Muffled, a
Dull throb in a
Bleeding heart.

I am whispers.
I am darkness.
I am guilt.
I am pleas.

I am lies,
Years of
Carefully constructed
Lies.

My broken bones
In a decorative vase
In New York City’s living room.
What an honour it is to be
Misunderstood.
A tragedy, oh.
Look at the way her femur is cracked.
The pain she must have felt! To have
Tasted an ounce of it, I’d never
Understand.
And the pictures are taken
And the young boys don’t “get it”
And the girls laugh at their ignorance, as they themselves
Struggle for definitions.
But I am enigmatic.
My bones have no story.
My bones can be yours.

is covered in tattoos and
likes to drink expensive whiskey
with mint leaves
and fruit slices in it.

She has the strong, sturdy body
of a field worker and is the only
woman I know who looks good
in bright orange.

We share fajitas and
chimichangas while
listening to indie folk music.

She pushes her stomach out
and asks me to
name her fajita baby.

Her mastiff eats from the trash
while we wrestle and scream
because he knows this
is his only chance
at leftover rice
and guacamole.

Her face is the
last breath of Christ
and she tells me
she hates me
while pushing me off
of her
after I make her come.

The dog and I
both know the truth.

it’s loud in here
between my eyes
and my soul
in the neural synapses
that make up the “me”
that we all know
and when I ask you to
say it again or
speak up
or yell
know
it’s nothing
to do with you
and all do with the
rushing whir of gears
that I long ago
stopped trying
to quiet