this all could have been mine
geometric shape wallpaper
and dashes, dots on my sheets
mom making my bed
smoking non-filtereds
and staring in the direction of
old globes and stuffed squirrels
posters of campuses i should i have attended

shirt no pants
no shirts
scribbling something partially worth reading
legs crossed
listening to that song for the fiftieth time
ashing on the floor
waiting by the phone for you and only you

but this isnt home
i didnt grow up here
i slept here
i embraced those who meant something
i giggled till tears
dripped into my oil paints
but even watered down they were made of use

a spring in this bed is
right the **** up my ***
springy is what they call me now
ill scrape those stickers off
a six inch blade till dawn
and i would be no closer

to those days where i cheesed
where you begged for me
where i began to loose myself
where i became less of a person
and more of a character to you all
cartoonish

no
my home is not here
and if you try to get me to own
a single element of it all
ill decry it
i know its not healthy
but i was thinking
that i could make up the difference

in my bedroom
not only with my hands on you
a gentle graze
or light and deserving
application of the pucker
but with my pen to pulp
and a gush to the world
so that a secret might
be known to us all
not just me

the women of the past keep
phoning.
there was another yesterday
arrived from out of
state.
she wanted to see
me.
I told her
"no."

I don't want to see
them,
I won't see them.
it would be
awkward
gruesome and
useless.

I know some people who can
watch the same movie
more than
once.

not me.
once I know the
plot
once I know the
ending
whether it's happy or
unhappy or
just plain
dumb,
then

for me
that movie is
finished
forever
and that's why
I refuse
to let
any of my
old movies play
over and over again
for
years.

Death to a flower
The season draws to an end
Stalk and leaf melt
And their heads finally bend

Settling in for sleep
Yesterday still a light thought
Crushing petals
Winter was finally caught

They lay down their pride
To a soft and easy breath
Stronger in dream
Smiling, conceding to death

Dead rest with comrades
But they too lay amongst foes
Caring nothing
With a deep sigh, so it goes

I'll mostly sit on walls dangling my feet
To tease the swarming trappers
Who nip the dead skin that falls from my soles
Like feeding fish alone in the tank
Who are submitted to the distorted faces
Of their peers amidst
The crashing waves of the surface world
Above where God and his friends are
Smoking cigarettes and listening
To the sounds of Getz
The Golden Boy
While ignoring me until they meet
The one who sits on walls
Dangling his feet.