Ouch. There's a tug somewhere deep in my gut.
Ooh, a pinch almost.
I hunch over, placing one one hand on my stomach.
Squint my eyes and scrunch my nose.

"You okay, ***?"

"Yeah, ma. Can I just try on these jeans and get home? My tummy hurts."

"You feel like you're gonna puke?"

"No, just a little crampy."

The discomfort continues.
I grab the Levi's. Size 12/14.
Shuffle into the dressing room.

"Uh, mom . . . ?"

"Yeah? Are they too big?"

"Uh, no . . . " Then, in hushed tones. "Can you come here?"

"What?"

"Uh . . . I think maybe. I uh, got my period."

Silence. Anticipation. Waiting for the happy mom, excited squeal, and Welcome-to-Womanhood! hug. A My-Little-Girl's-Growing-Up smile at the very least.

Instead, with a straight face, "Oh, well, we'll have to take care of that. Did the jeans work out?"

I'm so over art.

I'm over art for art's sake.

I'm over art for Pete's sake.

So here I am.
Sitting on my couch
and eating potato chips
and thinking about you
and what might have been.
Wallowing in self-pity
and artificial flavors
and carbohydrates.
The only things comforting me
are my fast metabolism
and the hum of the air conditioning.

A big band roaring, eagle soaring
Freedom rings, America screams
Schools burning, no one's learning
Hurricanes, earthquakes
Mother Nature's big mistakes
Or triumphs, it's all perspective
Uniformity, parallelism, have gone to the dogs
About time

Look up lucid, write it down.
Read a book, then skip town.
Share a smile, sell an frown.
Act a fool, act a clown.

Tell stories, try and match wits.
Complain, complain, give two *****.
Catch your tantrums, throw your fits.
One hit wonders are still hits.

Shut the door, dim the lights.
Crash a party, get in fights.
Shorten days, lengthen nights.
There's no wind to fly the kites.

Watch the sky, see a flash.
Watch the road, miss a crash.
Colon followed by backslash.
A vampire weekend beats a monster mash.

But no one cares when you're human.
That's all you'll ever be.
No regrets, only lies to set the liars free.

Bad habits are unhealthy.
Breaking habits is hard.
But. Actually. In reality.
One must start a habit
to break a habit.
One must habitually try
to break their habit.
That's their new habit:
Breaking their old habit(s).
So. Is that unhealthy?
No. Bad habits are.
Breaking habits is a good habit.
So try not to break that one.

"Don't leave out the graphic details."
Oh, trust me. I won't.
The gruesome, disturbing, intimacies.
The bone-chilling, hair-raising fragments.
It's almost too much to bear.
But not quite.
This vulgarity is just enough to keep them on the edge of their seats.
Every tiny, twisted moral of the story.
In between the cracks, find shining slivers of redemption.
Only to immediately cover them up with rotten deception.
Good, ***** flair. Scummy additions. Sick annotations.
Keep the masses rollin' in.
Complexity, concentration, then chaos when they want more fear.
The blood-curdling, stomach-churning truths.
The disgraceful, distasteful deductions.
We've come to the conclusion they crave this coagulation of ****.
Dark disdain eating away at the corpse of wellness.
Vermin, pests, gnawing, slobbering.
Choking on the bones of prosperity.
The decomposition of this life is what they love.
Flies, gnats, swarm. Maggots clump.
Crack, rip, slurp, gag, choke, ******* die.

Ripples in time, wrinkles of fluff.
One more memory, not enough.
Diffuse the thoughts, rebundle them up.
Empty the bottle, fill the cup.
Pour it back and forth, in and out.
Sincere recollections, without a doubt.
Residue builds, the layers form.
Peel them away, reveal the worm.
Squirming side to side, to and fro.
Little Wormy, where to go?
Jump to the left, then the right.
Play that accordion night by night.

Acrostic poems shouldn't be reserved for the
Mildly ******* fifth graders who still can't identify
Arkansas on a blank map of the United States.
Real "poets" use formulas, too. Are you trying to tell me
Elizabethan sonnets hold more "poetic" merit
Than this skillfully crafted,
Thought-provoking
Ode to my favorite liqueur?

Quail eggs, duck fat
Liverwurst at its worst
Pâté is passé
Bulgur is ******
Shellfish emulsion
Widespread revulsion
Giblets and gravy, soured and skinned
Simmered, steamed, fried and ******
(order up)

Grow the growth
Get your act together
Take the oath
Don't avoid bad weather
Take your lumps
Let out your cats
Squeeze your lemons
Just live like that

You sound like a seashell.
You fall too fast and too hard.
I want to catch you,
but I'm full of secrets.

Closing your eyes and nodding your head.
You are a delicacy too  sweet for me.
I will lick your fingers
and roll into a cave.

I am a mouse, but the bad kind.
Squeaking and stealing and running.
Your bones are light and
I will play fiddlesticks on them.

I'm ******* everything out of my skull
and putting it in a mason jar.
For safe keeping and for secret keeping.

I'm forcing everything I feel into a field.
A field with deer ticks and poison ivy.
And plenty of mosquitoes.

I'm pushing all of the twists and turns in my stomach
down through my legs and into my toes.
So I can do my nervous dance and never
let my heels touch the ground.

I'm filling up a baby pool with all the things I've learned.
I'll do a dead man's float and get a sunburn.
I'll peel away my flakes of skin and
overnight them to my future self.

I've been swimming for days.
That land's still crystal clear.
Bold/Dark line won't erase.
It's your name that I hear.
Wish I never had learned it.
Your blood's too fast for me.
That pink bookmark? I burned it.
Hope your head rolls off from leprosy.
I've got a case of the greys.
Yeah, it's all your fault.
I choked on a bone (frozen gaze),
When you poked my iris out.

Y'know what's funny?
Me.
I'm funny.
But not funny enough to draw a crowd.
Not funny enough for it to define my personality.
Not funny enough to compensate for my awkwardness.
Or my body.
Or my beauty . . . or lack thereof.
Not funny enough to go places because of my funniness.
Not funny enough to make other funny friends.
Yeah, I'm funny . . . funny looking!
See? That's my funny joke.
But not funny enough.

born again and such a stretch
manifest and etch-a-sketch
my brain is gone, i'm not the best
carry on to ace the test
rhyming words and cracking skulls
parking lots of oily gulls
beating hearts with drumming sticks
mouthing words of stevie nix
getting old and magic wands
dumping bodies into ponds
flash, flash, the smiles of moms
making rent and dropping bombs
gravitate towards running fast
this line's a lemon, and the last

Hennish Purple.
Cluck, cluck, cluck.
Two shoes. Eight feet.
Makes no sense.
         Picket fence?

Peaches.
Cold, stinging teeth.
Pucker up. . .
In a bad, uncomfortable way.

Sticky Armpits.
Wet, gross.
Saturated.
Radiates.

Get me outta here.
Back to the homeland.
Stuck. Stuck.
Wait. Wait.
Sweat more, please.

Okay, now we can leave.

Man, look at 'em go.
Zipping about.
Fast flying, like their fathers.
Fly fishing, like their fathers.
Dropping cones, scraping knees.
Crying, laughing, *****.
Wooden block, sidewalk chalk.
Old McDonald had a farm.
Mayor Daley had a city.
A whole ******* city.
Fire hydrants, parking meters.
Public parks, with wood chips.
Rubber wood chips.
For babies and kids and dogs.

I'll choke on the right things
as they leap out my throat and
go bite things. I'll candy coat
their cryings so they don't
know that they're dying.
I'll poke them as they're
writhing and goad them
to start trying and coax
them to start flying, all
the while knowing that
Bigfoot sightings are as
big a joke as my writings.

I'll spray the paint inside my mouth
and tag myself with my secret gang.

That song we sang and the words we wrote
are lodged in my throat.

And I hope it's not too late to rearrange
this melody so that I can change.

I'm hopelessly, incredibly,
stuck here with nowhere else to be.

You shook me up. You ran me out.
Hope your stupid plans pan out.

It's as uncertain as death is certain.
Fish grapple at hooks and answers.
Pointy elbows scraped on bricks. Bruises.
Soap-making kits collecting dust.
      Nobody wants them.
      Nobody wants you.
A twelve-cent stamp doesn't get anyone
      anywhere these days.

So what if it's an ice cream fetish?
I'll relish in knowing I'm less ****** up than you.
I'm sad in an "Atkins diet is healthy" kinda way.
I'm so done that you need to quick!
take me out of the oven and carve me up for your family!
"Sorry, I think it's a little dry this year."
"Oh, no! Not at all! Did you find this glaze online?"
I can't stand being alone, which is normal.
If God is the DJ, he's not playing enough practical jokes.

feasting is beastly
devouring the measly
souls of the weaklings
how mild and meekly
cowering, quivering
stock-still, but shivering
delivering evil at doorsteps
grabbing the forceps
take a few more steps
I'll cut you and your kids
and your wife with her fits
are you aware of
the pits of despair?
****, now you're scared
**** all your cares
'cause you're going nowhere
except back to that place
drool drips down your face
crusty blood-caked lips
you faked your trips
seen what I've seen?
please, your nightmare's my dream
nothing as it seems
sewn up the seams
blown up the reams
of **** that you wrote
and with a knife at my throat
I'll dare you one dare
just one
sit there and stare

It's like you took a rag,
soaked it in sorrow,
wrung it out into a bucket,
dumped that bucket
into a bathtub,
and baptized yourself.

My teeth were never pearly. But slowly, but surely
they've been fading, yellowing. In my mind I've been
mellowing. But on the outside I'm cracking, as if I've
had a whacking. But maybe I have in my head, 'cause
now I'm wishing that I'm dead. With my teeth all
rotten, as if I've forgotten to stand up, walk to the
sink. It's just too hard to think. To with my hand,
grab the brush. But there's no need to rush. Except
now there is reason 'cause the pain's done more than
ease in. It's taking control and it seems to be on a roll.
My teeth start to chatter, crash together and shatter,
'til they're all on the floor. But the pain's begging for
more. It's not enough to deface me. It needs to erase
me. Pressure runs down my spine. No more can I
weather. Hurting me's fine, but killing me's better.

I want to kiss your ears and bury you alive.
In ***** snow or rotting wood or something cheap.
I want you to cry and your tears will taste like carrots.
And a little bug or worm or miniature train will fluff your pillow.
She'll make you feel at home and tuck you in for me.

Cold pizza.
Storm of the century.
Draped in lies & love.
Funny glasses.
Shark tank disaster.
Too old & cold for *******.
Flashed before me.
Rollerskates. Pardon me, "-blades."
Don't like pizza crust.
Manning up, facing demons.
Worst midnight snack ever.

Life is like a Feelie Box
Guess what is inside
Faster, slower rusty clocks
Make your feelings hide

Squished together in my mind
Twisted path and sloping hill
In the well that's for the blind
Picture Buckets, sights to fill

Ironically The People talk
Cats and Dogs still cannot speak
Blackboard covered in white chalk
Molding youngins week by bleak

"Have no fear," The Doctor cries
The Farmer's crops are gone
Surround yourself in plastic lies
Pink flamingoes for the lawn

Night-time is dawning fast
Lights unhealthily they flicker
Make the day-time moon still last
While sunbeams can get sicker

Gently remove our daytime skins.
Our fabrics, itching us, scratching us.
Making us uncomfortable.
Take them off. Into the hamper they go.
It's not enough.
Itches. Scratches. They persist.
More. More. Closer to birth than we've been since
that fatefulfateful day.
Come clean. Cleaner than ever before.
Down to skin and bones.
Our bare bodies.
Knobby knees. Rigid ribs. Hard hips.
Milky white skin. Pearlescent in the moonglow.
Tonight's darkness trapping our flesh.
Peel away the layers. The skin is too much.
Loosen it up. Slide the meat off our bones.
Tendons, muscles relax. Create slack, then pull back.
String by string. Gone. Everything.
The blood trickles to the floor.
Making a mess, but keeping us clean. Cleansed.
Free. Our bones hollow stone.
Our skeletons clanking, clashing.
Becoming brittle. We snap. Crack.
The scrapes and flakes amount.
The bones shaking and falling.
Together. 'Til we're all just
one big pile of dust,
waiting for the morning cleaning crew to come sweep us up.

Grasping, never clutching
No feeling, only touching
Amidst the timbers, amongst the weeds
Branches, limber, on which the soul feeds
Scraping the surface, water trickling in
A body of growth about to begin

It's absolutely SICK what some people will do for attention.
Being not there but being there is nice. Easy.
Others will like you more. You have to stop shrieking.
Pipe down! Be quiet. You're a  basket case. Good luck, ****.

I'm okay with being sad sometimes.

And I'm even more okay with not drinking my coffee black.


I think I'm beginning to grow up.

Look for glasses overflowing
Underbellies showing
Of people never knowing
Just exactly where they're going
Follow buttons glowing
Because it's all for the showing

Till you're drowning in the pool
Wish you coulda kept your cool

But it's too late. Too late for everything.
Nothing's fixable. The damage is permanent.
Look at this mess, I must confess.
It's the biggest yet.

I'm always running late
And some may say it's fate
Or simply in my DNA
But maybe--just maybe
It's because deep down below
I know that when I die
My tombstone won't read
"If only she could be time."

Fat cats sit on mats
for kids to rhyme
and wile away the time
of day and I'm dazed
by the haze of my days,
'cause seeing clearly's
overused and I'm
amused by your subtle
clues you choose to drop
and hint that we're a pair.
You squint your eyes
at mine and find I'm
back inside my head
rhyming kid words
too cold for snow and
too old, so though
you think it's bold for
you to say, I was told
you'd stay to play, which
makes me not surprised
you'd spill your guts
through your squinty eyes.

Larkin walking on the ground
Muddy lovers gather round
Want to know what lives they've found
Uptown, downtown, outoftown.
And I see the things they share
If they won't care, why should I care?
So many shadows overwhelm
Until they bust & burst over the helm.
Now the boat is on its own
The seagulls watching, away they've flown.

Lemme set fire to your home.
Call the fuzz, I'll pick it out
my navel and run.
You'll never catch my intent
cuz it's way over the foul line
and into the nosebleeds.

so I'll sit and I'll stare
I'll stop and I'll watch
all of the things that
my eyes cannot touch
my crutch is broken
your hands have spoken
either with or without
you still lose a token
but if joking about it
shakes the fears right out it
would you still want me?
I highly doubt it.

Slouching through the alleys
Peel around the corners
Too fast to really notice
All the dead with their mourners

Ignoring as they're walking
To different dreary places
Like grey clapboard houses
Skin peeling off their faces

Hollowing out their conscience
To make room for memories
Drenched in tears and decomp
Looking back on those better days

Fogging up the ***** glass
To peer inside the mind
**** crusted onto dusty things
They didn't want to find

Putting away shameful thoughts
As if the bad things all died with them
Locked up in a secret box
Just waiting for their next victim

It's all become flaccid memories.
You look so nonplussed. Sitting there.
I bet we're not thinking of the same thing.
That night, that time.
I'm thinking about you.
Can you tell?
Does my face show it?
The way my eyes bend the light that
cast shadows underneath your brow,
making you look mysterious.

Great, now I'm embarrassed.

All I held close.
Bet you didn't even know.
Or care?
Is this our way of . . . well.
Unsharing?

First, let me binge on all of the things I love about you:
I love the way you smell. And your strong hands.
Your smile, your laugh. Your charisma, your warmth.
Etc, etc. (I could go on, but for my own good, I should stop.)

Now, let me purge myself of these things.
Yes, I'm puking out your good.
I'm vomiting love.
Hold my hair back, will you?
I can taste it, coming back up.
Hurts. Much easier going down. Figures.
There it is, in a messy pile on the floor.
The stench burning my nose,
making my eyes water, wafting into
other rooms.

Everyone, sniff. Smell that?
Acidic, putrid.
Regurgitated love.
No one wants that **** anymore.  

Does that repulse nonplussed you?
Go ahead, get on your ******* hands and knees.
Lap it back up.
Just try.

I was going to forgive you for everything.


Until you called me a "real *****" and told me to **** your ****.

"Mind over matter"
only makes you fatter
if you can't see
all the *******
you're feeding yourself.

Danger, dirt and grime
penetrate my mind
With time, I find
I'm getting cruder
I flop to the floor
on bended knees
I weep for me
and only me
Because who else in
this Great Big World
gives a flying frisbee

Give it up 'cause it's stinging
Satin's always been clinging
You're wailing now, not singing
Please tell me what I'm thinking

Come crash my stupid party.
We'll sneak into the basement
and share swigs of gin and
swap spit and oxygen and win card
games we don't even wanna play.

Today I learned the hard way
that my way or the highway
won't fly, but fly away with me
(but not in a gay way).

Not to sound cliché, I wish we
had wings or capes so we
could soar and swoop
through space and I could
score at hoops in space
(like Space Jam). And we can
pretend that rabbits and
carrots and green circle stars
have magic and real far away
our ending's tragic, but we don't
have to think about that yet.

We can go home and roam
around and let fun abound
until the right timing to quit
whining and open our eyes
to all our lies and do grown
things like answer phone
rings and own up to our
feelings, but let's hold off on
that for now.

There's nothing wrong with it.
Staying up till the middle of the night
    to fix something that didn't fixing?
Let go of it. Careful, with prestige.
Underestimated mountain-movers;
    that's who they are.

He's got a nice mouth
that talks and kisses.
That whispers.
And eyes that sigh.
And his hands are
nice to hold and
clap and be around.

Brains and minds
don't mind or matter.
Soon he'll find that
her eyes are too big
and mouth's full of
**** and her hands
are tied, just like
her stomach.

He'll discover on his own
(or with the help of a poem)
that her heart's all
cluttered and flooded
with stupid things.

Time and thoughts
are remedies, but heads
are not extremities
that we can see with
naked eyes and touch
with tender hands.

She's got words
that ramble and
circle his name.
When the tongue
hits the teeth,
she stops because
she likes it.
And she likes
his sideways glances.

He's got guts
and a dark side, surely.
Which is good. And
earlier what she
said about being
trapped in her head
is only maybe true.

Spinning on the ground
leads to spitting in the skies
underneath the pillows
underneath the lies.

Discover what the boredom left
crevasses wide and deep
smashed together like a puzzle
holding off the sleep.

Hunched over like a sack of weeds
carrots for your mother
mixed up letters numbers
each one to emphasize the other.