Fingertips sore from the mad dash of homework
due in five minutes. The way apples taste after
you’ve already bitten in and then find the
half-eaten worm at its center. Wave echoes
against sand mimicking the jagged lines
of a heart monitor, disappear in seconds
by another’s design. A half-tank of gas,
twenty dollars, and the ability to go anywhere.
The need to move,
like I’d know what the trees know
if only I could flutter in the same breeze as them.
I want to forget everything I’ve learned
in favor of everything I’ve known.
Fairytales
the taste in my throat
is not flowery like I wish
it were.
swallow tears, and drink
them like tea, they’re good
for you.
but my tongue is scathed
and sore, my throat even
more so.
there’s a thunderstorm
in the near distance—
this thunderstorm is the
soundtrack to my sappy
sad, story.
I don’t like thunderstorms
and the way they
interrupt my thoughts.
my attempt at peace.
but who am I kidding?
peace is a myth.
peace is out of reach.
I’ve got to stop believing
in fairytales.
Go Gently About Your Love
There are days you are impossible
to comfort. The days I find you kissing
your knees, I know to distance myself
from you however much it turns
my heart to orange pulp.
On these days, I use my indoor voice.
I draw you baths of lavender,
leave you letters in the steam of mirrors,
tell anyone who calls that you are sleeping.
You don’t say a word all night,
but you look at me with eyes full of
apology, eyes like flickering street lamps
that are sorry to be restless.
Darling, I have watched you become
lonely all at once, watched your smile
go slick like oil, your shoulders sag
as beds will when they have been
loved in for too many years.
Nothing soothes you.
I have tried the incense sticks,
the Chamomile lotion,
the jasmine tea, the silence.
There is nothing to be done for you;
I am ready to forgive myself for that.
I am ready to stop viewing your
sadness as a failing on my part.
All I can do is wait for your hand
to seek mine in the dark when
we both think the other is sleeping.
Why are the pretzels still out?
Why are the pretzels still out?
I thought I put them away
Open the bag, take two, or three
I just can’t resist.
But how come I didn’t put them away?
I usually do, to keep them fresh
And deliciously crispy
But soft on my tongue
Has my past-self thought of its future-self
But its future-selves were as baked
as the pretzels
And they forgot what their past-self
Did for me?
What a shame one can’t
Always expect such kindness
Of us
So I put them away now
Or should I leave them?
I’ll probably get hungry
Later, again…
Why are the pretzels still out?
- Waves
Pennies
we used to flatten pennies
along the midwest railroad
pressing our cents onto
the vibrating metal tracks
hoping that perhaps our
wishes would squeeze
out of their copper finish
and into our youthful
hands of imagination
daydreaming about
hitching a ride upon
each passing boxcar
with a vacant door
but now, I think maybe
the escape was the
actual wish and the
pennies were just
for show
The 11 year old chess genius
I met an eleven year old chess genius.
I told him no matter how smart he was,
he was still a child.
He went on to say that for his age he was
smart and more so than the children his age.
So I asked him, “What is love?”
With confidence. he replied, “To have feelings
or affection towards someone or something.”
“See, you are still a child.” I laughed.
He questioned why.
“So what’s your definition of love?” He asked.
So I said to him:
“Love is nothing but a four lettered word.”
There was a pause.
To my surprise he remained quiet.
It’s an awful shame to be so wise
at an age of just eleven, I thought.
Too young to be so old.
farm party.
(cowritten with Lindsay)
hello, I’d like to introduce you to our meth friends -
don’t worry, they’re ecofriendly
I don’t know why we felt the need to smoke in private silence. Maybe
we wanted to jump off that bridge.
go ahead and have sex next to the fire, I’m a lifeguard, it’ll be okay
I don’t know to treat burns - please don’t act like you don’t think about jumping off the same bridges.
I casually talk about killing myself a lot -
I don’t understand how so many of you don’t get hyperbolic language?
(that’s what makes me want to legitimately kill myself)
hey, is this zucchini? it’s too dark to tell but it’s going in my mouth anyway.
would you be so kind as to cut tongue out with a serrated spoon?
that was definitely an entire raw onion.
I’m not kidding - cut it out. I’m sick of west coast pseudo-intellectual conversation.
I’m crying because you’re a fucking idiot, not because of the onion.
I don’t think you understood; we’re not in an open relationship with anything partially sentient.
this fire feels kind of nice, but I have a mystery wound and I think my skin is auto-flaying.
all I’m saying is no one has heard about elijah wood for a few weeks, it’s not impossible he’s addicted to meth now.
Structures
Aleatory samples, casualties
of loose cobblestones on the streets.
The wars, the battles, the combats,
Noise flowing thorough public sewers,
the smoky sound raising through manholes.
(carefully, she disassembled the foundations,
carefully she traced a few lines)
One house for the poor man,
lands in which dense woods are planted;
darkness — sounds of tomorrow and today: voices
of worried kinships.
One house for the poor man, two for the combed hair of that boy.
Aleatory samples of poor
men and combed boys;
statistics do not converge
to justices, algorisms
by themselves say nothing.
They’re, though, all hidden under the earth
(carefully, she buried the foundations,
cautiously, she laughed).
