In this ridiculous
cynical world
can two people be each other's muses?

despite sketchy moves, drawn to each other
mixing like a drink at a pretentious southern bar
written as a thought-provoking short story

with a sudden ending.

Is there a way for the person I write about
to be out there, thinking of me?

Making his own version of poetry?

I need a teacher
to tell me that I'm great
at this writing thing
who will give me constructive criticism
and As
and gold stars or something

Or I at least need a teacher
to tell me that I'm terrible
and should revise
and demand more of myself
and hit the delete button
and do something else with my life

But now that I'm the teacher--
...how do I get better?

Why is it that other people's impressions
mean more than any reflections
ever have?

We need to talk

He said as I sipped wine in a bath tub
all while being watched by my cat
after a good work day
Feet don't hurt
at all.
Purring.

We really don't.

Cerci Lannister.
Hiding nothing.
T-shirts with no bras.
Disney princesses.
Gay rights.
Doing what I want.
Black rights.
Sunglasses.
Women rights.
Moving out.
Saying what I think.
Breaking up with him.
Human rights.

Middle fingers.

Belief in self.

I think we can be something
but we're not even a we.

If we could have each other
would we even want it anymore?

I keep calling us a we.
In my head and in poetry.

We're not a we.
But **** we should be.

I really can't wait
Until I have a baby
and a wedding

For the facebook likes.

Strike 1: he has a girlfriend
Strike 2: who I know
Strike 3: want to play a different game?

I want you.
That's what they said
But I know enough to know the you
Stands for
underneath my clothes

and not *ultimately
me at all.

Texting until 3 am

all of them

again

I must be lonely
or bored

or

interested or

interesting?

Bought myself flowers today
If you'd ever met
my ex
boyfriends
You'd know why
This isn't sad at all.

I've been treated right
I've been treated wrong
I've been left
I was always right.

First they came for the Muslims, and I did not speak out
-I was not Muslim

Then they came for the refugees, and I did not speak out
-I was not a refugee

Then they came for me- and there was no one left to speak for me.

You took me
And packed me away
I felt unloved and alone
And you made me neither of those
From the beginning
I loved you and appreciated you
And felt sad
That I would hurt you some day.

The rule was:
Where there is blood, there is pain.
Well maybe it isn't that obvious.

Father and son.
Both verbs when you abbreviate their names.
Share a last name of course.
Even a first letter.
One, the current homophobic governor of Mississippi.
The other, a happy interior designer of Austin.

I wish in my Mississippi public school I could teach,
That Shakespeare ain't got nothing on this kind of irony.

I want to tell anyone in the South
Who is clinging desperately to their confederate heritage
That succeed and secede aren't just homonyms... They're opposites.

What year is it in Mississippi?
Sometimes it’s hard to tell,
You’d think in the 21st century,
We’d be able to tell time well.

Talking slow and taking it slow is okay
At least for most of the time
But there’s a big difference in drawling what you say,
And never reaching your prime

What year is it in Mississippi?
I don’t think it has its own zone.
Surely it’s impossible for the entire state
To have their watches on loan.

What year is it in Mississippi?
They seem so hopelessly behind,
Most other states quickly recognize
That her flag is hatred-lined.

What year is it in Mississippi?
Sorry, but I have to ask,
First in everything bad, and last in anything good,
To even tie with another state seems an impossible task.

Because when you act like you’re still in the past,
You’re going to keep being last.
And passed.
And bashed.
And masked.
And trashed.

No one thinks it’s hopeless yet
Or that the whole state is obscene,
I just hate to break it to Mississippi
That it is 2015.

We can wait ten years to change the flag,
Or another whole generation.
We can turn this thing into just a snag
or rebuild from the foundation.

We can change the confederate flag tomorrow
Or just wait around til we’re last,
We can bring the next fifty years some sorrow
Or mark it as a thing of the past.

We can get made fun of by every other state
First place in everything bad,
Or we can start to fix our problems with hate,
And make being actually first the new fad.

We can cling to a symbol of hate and loss,
And pretend it’s simply tradition,
Or we can dispose of that top-left cross
And avoid all of the opposition

Because Mississippi,

We can wait a week, a month or a year,
It really is a choice.
But the flag is going to change, it’s clear,
With or without your voice.

Sometimes I think poets are full of ****
Because so many of them use beautiful words,
When talking about birds.

I mean I only notice birds:
When they wake me up at nine am on Saturdays
Or **** on my dark colored car
Or mock my bored-eyed cat
Or beg for my sandwich at the beach

Honestly when you talk about listening to birds tweeting,
I think first of Twitter.

And when you talk about birds playing,
I think of professional football.

And even when you talk about the cool birds, the night birds,

I think of a particularly disturbing YouTube video of an owl's head going all the way around.

Yeah, I think what you guys like most about birds,
Is that they're easy to rhyme with words.

We never listen to albums from beginning to end anymore.

Thanks, Spotify.
Sorry for sinning, Taylor Swift.
And I guess there is an owed apology to ACDC and the Beatles because you aren't on there either.

But guess what.

Today I actually listened to an old favorite from beginning to end.
(not you guys though)

Good News for People Who Love Bad News.

Every song. In order. And it threw me back to ninth grade,
Faster than even my favorite photograph could.

The lyrics made me scream them and the even the (three) interludes made me smile.

And you're right, Taylor,
It was a work of art.

Good thing it was nearly free
(99 cents for three months)

Or else my morning would have not have passed so swiftly. Or so modestly.

We all hate Kanye West but like his music and we all have that place in the middle of our back we can't scratch.

We've thought the floor could quite possibly be lava and lemurs are cute and scary at the same time.

We all sigh when we get in our beds at the end of the day and we all have a person we hide from at the grocery store and are that person to someone else.

Sometimes we look in the mirror and see a stranger looking back, what is that? Why am I here? Why do I look like this?

When a rock gets in our shoe or an eyelash gets in our eyes we are reminded at how a great life can turn so instantly.

We all think the world is so big we couldn't possible explore any of it and so small we couldn't possible escape.

We all squint in the sun and dash through the rain.

We all have argued about where the purple and blue color lines are drawn and have discussed whether black or white is the absence of color.

We've all stubbed our toe, missed a doorway, hit our funny bone.

And it wasn't funny to any of us.

We've all scratched our heads while pondering or thinking we have lice

We all have said a prayer we make it to the bathroom on time and also that we don't die alone.

We all wake up with bad breath and worse attitudes.

But mostly we hate Kanye West.
And get his songs hopelessly stuck in our heads.

They won't teach you cursive anymore, kids.
We're in the digital age.
You've got an electronic page.
What are things that don't fade?

Please know there isn't a substitute for writing things down.
As I type this on my phone.

The filth of the human condition goes down the drain
(except for the part in my brain)

Earthworms dead on the sidewalk,
Maybe they're lucky--
It's also fishing season.