5/26/2017

I search desperately for it:
the drive to write.
It can be found in my inability to stay satisfied

The visits- never too numerous
one call I'm thrown off
oh, it would be great to see each other

I stare off and agree.
i dislike driving
because i see all the dead animals

on the road
one call from you
still no response. still no response

4/13/2017

spring sprung like a coil
forcing itself, tugging on the city's dress
and the flowers, rabid

the mixed old cement steps
of the apartment building where i sit
tinny song in the air saying

oh, i'm just a kid
oh, i'm no longer a kid
dead on arrival, letting myself go

the city's mine now
well, at least any point below 4th street
and city hall

i am no longer suffering
i am simply waiting
the argument could be made:

what's the
difference?
that, i don't know.

3/29/2017

steaming july days,
screaming at me that I certainly did not know
what I got myself into

i couldve slashed my throat and
bled onto the connn-creete
and it wouldve boiled

no, you dont understand
no, you dont understand
no you dont understand

you understand? no, dont
you dont understand, no
dont you understand? no?

no...you'll never understand.
twisting our car-seat conversation
back and forth like a rivet

you were right
i didnt understand and i never did, an ingenue
you see back then

i was young for my old age
and old for my young age
who are you now

youve grown your hair out
and youre as woman as me?
a better photographer, too

but youre odd and always will be
i didnt know the indications of looove
i was what i was:

just a
little
girl.

3/29/2017

Time divides us like state lines
coming together,
apart again

After all
the mismatch words
and my would not, could nots

Simmering, cooling
into stability
My past now

Agrees with all the books i read
i am not tortured,
i was

I have said before
that year, you didn't think of me
But i believe you did here is the problem:

Better to not be thought of
than cursed but
maybe they were secular thoughts

Don't you think and
there was an incident at the
canal street station today

Suicide- i was running late i didn't catch the 6:40 train
maybe it is better i did not.
as i got to the platform, hot-to-trot

"They did a good job cleaning
it up," i looked down sick to my stomach
vertigo rising in my chest, ailing at the fact that was my first thought.

2/26/2017

Prince Street, NYC

the bright white heaven of a
terrace chair
you touched my shoulder, you thought

i cringed
a longer pause—— i didnt
i tried to freeze the spring

in its tracks and dead as a doorknob
stopped decomposed and quiet forever
the summer then swelled

to a crescendo
i sweated out what was left of my
humanity in battery park city

my art used to be found in suffering
and yet i wrote no poetry that week on
wall street

there is no nobility in this,
the suffering art
i mean.

Anne sexton: I never seemed to like the
spring for what it was but for what it could've been.

Princetonian fields, mausoleums
foreign to me, a brief reintroduction in
January only to be murdered again

How tragic, this
did the Witherspoon spring
the Nassau nights

mean nothing?
I revel in the past's
futility

2/2/2017

to vivisect the reader,
to bleed all over my paper
the one great poem i wish to write one day.

dead plath would be happy
my life with you a fat diseased rat.
for once, i think about what i write

taking slow breaths and thinking about meanings
there is something i am trying to say and i do not
know how to

clawing inside of me
an incubus's baby, what is it?
only dead saints know

but here's the thing,
and it is:
i did this to myself

i don't know what an apostrophe is
but i would if i saw it.
my past is full of ulcers and

the cold February cuts into me
it is my butcher
i have been that girl

2/2/2017

your look, i saw, i aimed for a reply
i couldn't find one and looked
at the ground

i went to see my friend
i tried, the windows were
dark

hello she called and opened the door
she never keeps the lights on
there are things in life you just cant predict

and i sit in my room during the winter
and i hate to use contractions in my poems
i wont i promised myself again, but here i am and here ive been

i tend to stay in my room , dont move a muscle
or a tendon that is
while the lights get lower

all its missing is the smoke of the lounge
and i very much miss cigarettes
the ones i rolled for myself almost a month ago

i know i will grow to love them though
so i
dont