To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.

Do you remember?
remember the sound
The million cicadas humming so loud
That we didn't remember they were there
Until we left Princeton  and could hear the silence again.
Those cicadas  were 17 years old.
Ten years older then us.
Just discovering life.
Just like us
Remember the day we carved the four faced Jack o' Lantern
Our artists mothers let us be messy
Paper mâché bodies never grow up

Can you count the times we jumped from the oak tree? On to the trampoline.
Your brothers were mean

The times we plotted against them.
The times we went on adventures to the woods
The time we tried to dig to china using spoons in my front yard.
The time i fought over you with another girl
The time you liked me back but never said
The time you got sick and couldn't play
The time the doctors took you away
And you came back with a scar on the back of your head
Stitches and bruises and blood on the bed
The day we didn't play as much anymore.
The day when we sold our house on palmer lane
The day your mom's fiancé left and never came back
The day we spent by the river
And the day after when your mom brought roses
And sprinkled them on the road
As we drove south with the big yellow moving van
Remember forgetting the time we remembered
do you remember?

Cargo ship

fixing to go. Winds are a cleaning.
Sting the eyes of the passenger

He prepares his feathers.

Damns his past.

Wonders if he'll ever fly again.
But knows that it is floating that he will do until it's sinking he prefers.

in a room,
brimming
with people,
I am alone —

sitting at an
empty table,

sometimes, I wish
someone would fill
the seat across from me,
and by sometimes, I mean
that I come here every single day
hoping with all of my heart that it will happen.

but I'm a bride and groom
in black and white. —
I'm an empty beige room with
a spider in the corner. —
I'm a glance with
a deadpan nod. —
I'm a dance where
you shift your weight
without moving your hips...

—

dribdrab fantasy,
peripheral face

Curious curious little boy
When will you learn, little girls are no toy

Curious curious little girl,
When will you know, virginity's no pearl

Curious curious little politician
When will you learn my future is missin

Curious curious little consumer
When will you realize the world's getting poorer

Curious curious human beings
Stop with the blindness and start with the seeing...
When will you decide to stop the drilling, and the billing, and the mass grave sight killing? And the shaming and the blaming and the sleeping child maming?
The spying and the crying and the nature is dying.
And realize the truth that the cage is in your mind
Just go back to the wild
With the rivers trees and the vines
The oceans and mountains
Canyons and pines
Forget all the poisons
Remember respect.
The feeling of bodies that don't suffer neglect.
Breathe in the fresh air
Inhabit the earth
rekindle the spirit
You were given at birth

Curious curious,

Its simply you see.
Let's not let this end us.
Let's choose to be free

You don't get it,
pen pal nonsense and all that
is a dead end road, with fifty foot cliffs on each side.
You're on the inside, and I'm on the outside.
The grubs, and needy feelies need you.
You cannot be alone,
and I am a loner.
Is it recognition of your quality that you desire,
well, I thought I gave that.
Or, perhaps its a companion, to stay with you
through the long and lonesome nights,
a lover for your life and nothing more...
Well, it ain't me babe.
I have, do, and will love you,
but, I cannot climb the wall anymore,
I don't like what has become of the inside.
So, do the right thing.
Look around you,
pick your poison,
and drink it.
Because I nearly died climbing over that wall.
And, I will not do it again.


But, If I pass by the place, in the hollow hours,
I will whisper through the cracks,
and stick my fingers through the holes.
And, if your not busy, and your hands aren't tied,
we can hold hands at the gate.
Until the guards drive me off,
and drag you back to your cell.