here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******)
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread

i am made of venom and sea foam and false hope -

i am a series of "connect the dots" that never really seemed to make the full picture........

i am momentarily momentous -
a monster of my craft.

i am what happens
when you take the lid off of a shaken up
bottle of coke, or some other similar generic soft drink.

i am unescapable, and
i am going to be a big deal from now on.

i am not sorry.

i am everywhere, gliding into senses, talking the way i want to, barely living, but
i am living.
i am freaking out in my very own stupid gutter.

i am never going to be the same.

i am everywhere,
everything,
and nowhere.

i started driving with my
left leg perched up on the driver's seat
again. sometimes i will sing if i feel like
it and if not, i still think about how i could crash
into anything if i really wanted, if i actually
cared to, but why bother if the song is good enough?

most of the time, the song is fine.

i'm vaguely in tune with how
my dominate foot controls the machine
now. and how i am really in control now. and how
i will no longer be the passenger in the seat,
and i will no longer allow myself to live at the
mercy of someone else’s demands now.
i think i feel okay now.

and most of the time,
the song is fine.

i do a little dance
with guilt
during the day,
and then i
let anger **** me at night.

go ahead,
have another breakdown in the office bathroom and then
pretend like you’re having the time of
your life on the internet. think about how
it could be happening to some other girl
if not you, how “cool” you must be
to be able to keep it together.
(which really means stupid)

they'll all think, "wow he must
really be something special to have someone like her" or something shallow like that, something along those lines. something to make it feel just a bit worthwhile.

go ahead,
lose track of when those lines of performability blurred and the sustainability of it all started.

someone might ask me if i want another drink and i will no thank you, because he tells me it “runs in your family.”
but he’ll pour himself a night cap or five before bed or he’ll convince me after a set of repeated no’s to wash down a heavy handed cocktail or two that he made because he says he’s the best at home bartender we know and we are always at home.

i don’t touch the stuff anymore, i used to when i was brave. i used to be brave.

he said, “you should write more,
you should let me use your words.”
but my words can’t hold any meaning
other than the utter embarrassment of
who i was and how it’s consumed who i
used to be at the hands of someone who
i allowed to selfishly grasp me when i thought i couldn’t hold myself. i watched myself fall through his fingers, like empty promises and then get thrown against the wall just like all our
various household items i’ve seen him smash in the same way.

so he thinks i just have writer’s block. or at
least that’s just what i tell him. and
i try not to, but i can still hear his stupid distorted guitar tone humming, calling me a dumb **** from the other room.