I hope someone was shot today
at four forty-seven *** em
somebody famous
with a famous death
I know where I was right then
(for once)
I don’t know where I was
when Kennedy got it
and I don’t know where I was
when Martin King went
(all I know is I wasn’t here)
I think I know where I was
when Lennon walked his last
(eating Weetabix eight years old)
and I know where I was today.
At four forty-seven *** em
I was ******* tomato seeds from a picture
of Doctor Thompson’s face.

i was once
young and
spilled out messy and passionate
dyed my hair too much
worked my fingers to the bone
bled
listened to good music
too loud
faked smiles
loved people deeply
who didn't deserve it.
pulled down the moon
and then the stars
and swallowed them
one
by
one
when i was young i
raised eyebrows
screamed and didn't stop.
burst into
dizzying
clouds of glitter and insensibility.
i wrote because
i thought my words might mean something to someone
someday
i thought i might as well
leave a mark
since i knew but didn't feel it.
i felt but didn't know it.
i'd be here for just a short while.
i filled up notebooks and journals
and sometimes i left them blank
because
i figured saying nothing
is
sometimes saying more than
saying something
i rode on trains for too many stops
because
i didn't know where i was going
and didn't care.
wore clothes that were
too big
traveled in cars that
were
much too drunk
to stay in the lines
based myself on baseless
meaningless
gestures.
didn't keep up with my responsibilities.
was unmistakably human.
pushed people away
crossed boundaries.
lit the world on fire
pretended like i didn't understand
chased shadows
when i could have been enjoying the sunlight.
i cried until my eyes were yellow and puffy
laughed until
my stomach ached and pulsed
sometimes for no reason
shivered and
banked sideways on
shores of quivering destruction
acted like i was
unbreakable
when i was young

pullplug and silence,
pullplug and sentence
fall from skyscraper woman --
another arrogant 12-story --
I, an edgy wrecking ball,
pullplug and dine,
pullplug and I'm divinely
base jumping to remind
I'm not ****** but old,
I'm not conniving but bored,
pullplug for ritual of ice,
pullplug for relation of stone,
sprawled in an empty bed,
while you talk in wasp nests,
I'm happy alone --
and made a worthwhile point--
identical towers are
terrible together.

Everyone wants to get into those pants of yours;
get into those jeans.
They'd all say a lot of things
to get in between.
Keep in mind the bottom line
is beneath those clothes you cling to.
So strip yourself clean string-bean.
Let them play tambourine on your heart strings.
Let them lye next to you,
tell you sweet lies that mean nothing
till you take it off.
Take it all off.
Do a little dance
make a little something to be remembered for in the morning,
when they leave.

She was a gamine,
an urchin and a recluse.
Tattered and waifish,
scrounging for some small morsel underneath a city bus.
Tarnished,
a lot like brass that's been exposed to water;
she's splotched.
Even whilst disenfranchised,
she carries some valiance hidden beneath her turncoat.
There is beauty in the loose pages she's giving to the wind.
She is,
and will forever be,
floating in the updraft of a sidewalk vent.