Old men fascinated by teen *****
and the hues harnessed by high school hips,
I ask you to look at something corrupted:
yourself, this town, this world.

The town's lumber supplier has died
and daughters fight over dollars.

Greasy haired women, wearing denim,
smoking menthols and bruised with cheap make-up,
stand on fractured sidewalks.

I walk, wearing a Native American-ized fleece,
the Chippewa crush their cigarettes
and blink like lizards at me
because I wear bastardization,
but wash it.

Half the town smokes,
and if you ask the pastor,
the whole town smokes
because everyone's going to hell.


All the girls read John Green
and flip the pages because it's a cheaper escape than a bus ticket.

Plato said that everything changes
and nothing stands still;
these people will suffer,
their bodies will break down,
and they will die --
but what never changes is their hope
in eventual death.

What cannot change is my hope
in something more.

The sky looks like cigarette ashes in a puddle of milk,
and I, almost 22, am unsatisfied that I have not won a Pulitzer.

And I, on the borderline of delusion and confidence, am unsatisfied I am not crazy or cocky enough to submit to The New Yorker.

I hear the voices of the pastors,
telling me that God heals all.

They say 'He' is the only absolute.

The people raise their hands towards the water-stained ceiling,
as if He'll push his arms through the copper-colored scabs and save them.

Grabbing their wrists and cooing,
I am the remedy to the anxiety of death.

I am six foot one and French, Irish, Cherokee,
some sort of Anglo-Saxon,
and a lost **** in a drowning garden.

I think about all those who had to ****,
in order to make my cheekbones,
eyebrows, lips, and ****.

I think about how I'm good at *** and bad when it comes to forgiving too easily.

I wonder how I can sweat on another body,
but only feel naked when I have to be myself.

I watch the elderly chant words:
******, ******, ****, and Half-Breed.
I study if their dry lips reflect the hate in their eyes.

Not all are like this,
but I am surrounded by tables of them,
as I pretend to be Christian,
just to get ahead.

I don't speak,
just sit like an unfilled bubble,
waiting to be marked out by graphite.
I feel like a *******,
I wish I had a Pulitzer.

The sky looks like a stretched grape,
covered in kisses of ******.
And I, white American conformist,
am unsatisfied
that I have succumbed to the American Dream.

I wish I had a Pulitzer,
I wish I had my mom and dad.

this would have been my year
had i not given up
could've answered all those emails
but i let them pile up
now im in a purple room
with wooden floors,
avoiding certain boards
cause im sick of splinters
and im staring at my apathy
staring back at me in a
pocket mirror,
from a mattress
full of metal springs
and im wondering how
one can be so ******* full
of misery and yet so ******* bored
cause i thought if i learned to feel again,
id go for a walk or a drink
but i haven't moved in three hours
and i don't think i want to
cause as far as i can see
there's not much to see,
not much to see
so ill keep calling
and hanging up
cause i don't actually want to talk
i just want to wake you up,
i just want to know that you've got
your pretty face in that bright yellow phone,
cause that's not much better
than where ive been lately
"where have you been lately"
i can hear you from three states away
screaming into your pillow
and if i focus hard enough,
these black sheets
are the navy blue ocean
and if i focus hard enough,
my lungs are collapsing
and if i focus hard enough,
i can feel calm
maybe for a minute
or two
cause if i focus hard enough,
i sink like an anchor
and where the sun can't reach me,
neither can you