Jul 2015
Everything I write makes me sound self-important,
So I’ll write about something that’s not me.
she does not have a face.
she does not have a name.
I do not know what she looks like,
how her eyes refract morning light.
I do not know what her laugh sounds like,
or how she answers the phone.
I do not know what color her skin is.
I do not know how she will take her coffee.
I do not know if she will drink coffee at all.
I do not know if she moves her mouth when
she reads to herself.
does she know how to dance?
does she love to paint?
will she like roller coasters
and cartoons?
Whataburger and late night rendezvous?
will she like rhyming poetry as much as I do?
will she hate it, as much as you may?
I’ve abandoned all structure,
First, third, and second person.
What even is this?
It’s 1:16 am right now
And I’m tired
But ***** it
Let’s write down some more things
I don’t know about her.
What will she study?
Does she like science and math?
or is she a freak who likes history?
Will she understand my repulsion to Styrofoam?
from which side does she peel a banana?
does she sleep on her back or her side or her stomach?
How much do inconsistent capitalization patterns bother her?
Will she understand that I am marvelously hysterical?
And that no one should seriously use the word ‘marvelous’?
What color are her eyes?
What color is her toothbrush?
What color is her hair?
What color is her favorite shirt?
What is she thinking right now?
What is she doing right now?
I’ll ask her in 15 years.
Maybe she’ll remember.
How many hearts has she broken?
How many times has hers broke?
How many summer nights were spent outside looking out
At the limitless sky wondering if there are any stars left or if all the lights in the sky are now airplanes?
Does she think about me?
Is she asleep right now?
Does she live down the street?
Does she live across the country,
Or a few towns over?
What’s her first initial?
Does she believe in aliens
Or is she wrong?
Does she appreciate this poem’s organization?
This isn’t even a poem anymore and to call it that was offensive.
Sorry.
Goodbye poetry.
Get it?
Because it’s hello poetry but like, not.
Ha, I love myself.
.
Does she love herself?
Yes.
Yes she does.
So I’ll write about something that’s not me.
she does not have a face.
she does not have a name.
I do not know what she looks like,
how her eyes refract morning light.
I do not know what her laugh sounds like,
or how she answers the phone.
I do not know what color her skin is.
I do not know how she will take her coffee.
I do not know if she will drink coffee at all.
I do not know if she moves her mouth when
she reads to herself.
does she know how to dance?
does she love to paint?
will she like roller coasters
and cartoons?
Whataburger and late night rendezvous?
will she like rhyming poetry as much as I do?
will she hate it, as much as you may?
I’ve abandoned all structure,
First, third, and second person.
What even is this?
It’s 1:16 am right now
And I’m tired
But ***** it
Let’s write down some more things
I don’t know about her.
What will she study?
Does she like science and math?
or is she a freak who likes history?
Will she understand my repulsion to Styrofoam?
from which side does she peel a banana?
does she sleep on her back or her side or her stomach?
How much do inconsistent capitalization patterns bother her?
Will she understand that I am marvelously hysterical?
And that no one should seriously use the word ‘marvelous’?
What color are her eyes?
What color is her toothbrush?
What color is her hair?
What color is her favorite shirt?
What is she thinking right now?
What is she doing right now?
I’ll ask her in 15 years.
Maybe she’ll remember.
How many hearts has she broken?
How many times has hers broke?
How many summer nights were spent outside looking out
At the limitless sky wondering if there are any stars left or if all the lights in the sky are now airplanes?
Does she think about me?
Is she asleep right now?
Does she live down the street?
Does she live across the country,
Or a few towns over?
What’s her first initial?
Does she believe in aliens
Or is she wrong?
Does she appreciate this poem’s organization?
This isn’t even a poem anymore and to call it that was offensive.
Sorry.
Goodbye poetry.
Get it?
Because it’s hello poetry but like, not.
Ha, I love myself.
.
Does she love herself?
Yes.
Yes she does.
I was tired when I wrote this.
