All I do is sit and stare and sleep.
I want to eat honey, I want to **** this guy, I want to jump out of my window.
How would they react if I were purged from my room through the window?
The room would hiccup and take a nap.
And it's only the second floor.
I thought that maybe I should come with a warning and waiver
or a stamp on my face that says "crazy."
Then I realized that I do.
Today I'm inhaling rejection,
the fluid and the fire, anywhere I go
the noises and movements wear me threadbare. I'm textured to be foolishly angry, anxious, sad, empty.
No one ever touches me.
I bet if I jumped out of my window, the air would feel cold and the grass would feel cold
and I'd probably only break an arm.
I am a vacuum inside.

You will never know the feeling
of the smooth valley between her hips.

Your fingers will not cross
those lands, peaks and hollows.

You won't stumble across buried treasure
or the chance to please a woman
so divine.

A "better" society
some may say,
with no war just peace
from day to day.
Now cheating and lying and stealing are lost,
but did it all not go at a cost?
How can not one go cheat or steal;
it surely has a great appeal.
The want to do wrong,
rebellion or greed,
lives in us all
like a planted seed.
We think it is harmless
but are soon to find out
that when this little plant shall spout
its not our small and harmless seed
but is behold a scavenging ****.
Consumed by it as many are
can lead us to go very far
with wants and wishes, hopes, desires,
all the while building funeral pyres.
But not all are bad,
you see some are good,
though we don't always do what we should.
We make our own choice,
we use our own voice,
though it makes us fail to agree.
We can't all do right,
its our sad human plight,
without it we wouldn't be free.

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.

I don't care how God-**** smart
these guys are:     I'm bored.

i see us in shades of spring and autumn
in the  r        s    of earlgrey left on the
             i          g
                n  
bottom of chipped
mugs and tea glasses on antique wood tables
and wood floors
in the smoke of cigarettes french inhaled in the woods
in the smoke of summer fires
that burns my eyes
and in the red stains left of white shirts
and the (almost) ***** left the next day in asheville alley ways
i see us in water running over rocks
and in the moss growing on boulders
in the ice fractures of thin glass
and the steam
vapors of a
tea kettle
at 4 almost five almost sun
                                                u
                                                p
when you are going
to be too far                                        away
and I am
going to be
a little too far gone
in a bottle of wine
a little out of my head
a little mad
a little lost while you are loosing yourself

gin reminds me of
black birds
{singing
               in the dead
of
night
}
  when i want to
take my
                 b   r   o   k  e   n
wings
        &
learn               y
          to       l
                 f
of flowers
blooming in
                       january
and
slightly-sweet country music
of
{almost}
thunderstorms and orange
blossoms
of wearing
too much
mascara
               and blush
just to walk around                    
                                       naked
in my kitchen
of cheeks
flushed
and the taste of lime
and gingerale
                         on the pads of
my
fingers
of restless nights
when days are     l         o      n     g
and sweet cosmos
and wine
don't   cut the    edg
e
and the
                 sting
of lavender laundry detergent
on a paper cut
                          of
being a
GROWNwoman and realizing
that
childhood
doesn't
                   end.
or stop.
when you
walk
         a      c    r    o    ss
a stage
of t
u m
b l
e
off of a summer warmed s
                                               l
                                                    i
                                                        d
                                                             e
of swisher
                   sweets
and wind chimes
in north carolina
of pressed powder and the tastes of
watered down
iced coffee
{coffee
ice
shake
almond milk
pour}
with no sugar

I refuse to sit and listen to you whine about your scars,
I've got a busy day ahead collecting hearts in jars,
I keep them on a shelf at home, where I poke them till they bleed;
Some people think its crazy, but I prefer to call it greed.

My heart cannot be caught, its stuck inside a box
Its stashed inside, a small small room, with lots and lots of locks.
I collect these jars for company, so my heart is not alone.
Because even a lonely tree, will try and grow around a stone.

I was sick of being a woman,
sick of the pain,
the irrelevant detail of ***,
my own concavity
uselessly hungering
and emptier whenever it was filled,
and filled finally
by its own emptiness,
seeking the garden of solitude
instead of men.

The white bed
in the green garden--
I looked forward
to sleeping alone
the way some long
for a lover.

Even when you arrived,
I tried to beat you
away with my sadness,
my cynical seductions,
and my trick of
turning a slave
into a master.

And all because
you made
my fingertips ache
and my eyes cross
in passion
that did not know its own name.

Bear, beast, lover
of the book of my body,
you turned my pages
and discovered
what was there
to be written
on the other side.

And now
I am blank
for you,
a tabula rasa
ready to be printed
with letters
in an undiscovered language
by the great press
of our love.

For Naomi Lazard

Sometimes I can't wait until I look like Nadezhda Mandelstam.
-- Naomi Lazard

My friends are tired.
The ones who are married are tired
of being married.
The ones who are single are tired
of being single.

They look at their wrinkles.
The ones who are single attribute their wrinkles
to being single.
The ones who are married attribute their wrinkles
to being married.

They have very few wrinkles.
Even taken together,
they have very few wrinkles.
But I cannot persuade them
to look at their wrinkles
collectively.
& I cannot persuade them that being married
or being single
has nothing to do with wrinkles.

Each one sees a deep & bitter groove,
a San Andreas fault across her forehead.
"It is only a matter of time
before the earthquake."
They trade the names of plastic surgeons
like recipes.

My friends are tired.
The ones who have children are tired
of having children.
The ones who are childless are tired
of being childless.

They love their wrinkles.
If only their were deeper
they could hide.

Sometimes I think
(but do not dare to tell them)
that when the face is left alone to dig its grave,
the soul is grateful
& rolls in.