23 May 2016

Baggage Claim

I am choking down several Flintstone Vitamins
with my black coffee:
my scruff is caught between childhood and adulthood.

Always a late bloomer, always with this arrested development,
always with this pain in the neck--
I pay my bills and reuse the stamps you send me.

Maybe I have something to offer,
like good taste in music, decent casserole recipes,
a hearty laugh,

mental illness.
I promise my brain hurts me more
than it will hurt you.

I promise you will let me down.

I can draw you a bath or draw you a picture,
do research by the side of the road.
I can pamper and cater and
get my shit together.

I promise that I will hold you with these fleshy arms
and listen to your secrets and not tell anyone.
Even after we break up, I will not tell anyone.

(And somewhere, while we're talking,
my flaws are folded neatly
in a bright yellow bag,
and that bag is caught in an endless ride,
a carousel ride,
wishing it was home again, with me.)




21 May 2016

Some day

Some day before I'm done,
someone will hold me.
Someone will hold me and say,
"You are enough.
You are more than enough."
Maybe some day.





08 May 2016

Through the Shell

Just don't leave. Don't leave.
Radiohead, "True Love Waits"

A throbbing head
listens to another caller.
Even whispers rattle,
and I know I am annoying.
And I know that promises
are fragile eggs, but cradle this one.
Cradle this one a little longer.
I gifted myself.
I created myself in your image.
The sun knows you are lying.
It shows through the shell,
reveals my tiny organs
beating in rhythm to you.
Cradle this one a little longer.
I know it's difficult
when I keep shaking.
I will keep listening.
Just don't leave.




05 May 2016

Campfire Communism

Marx was a Taurus
which means he probably
left the toilet seat up
while giving a damn
about bigger things.
All winter hair,
all broken up
about arrogant assholes'
"Truisms,"
he probably would hate
today's twittering and
armchair diagnosing.
Maybe he would like The National,
but probably not.
Maybe, like other Tauruses,
he would keep his
grievances to himself
if they weren't shared,
if he could not band together
with kindred spirits
like sacred melted marshmallows
against the fire.
Because Tauruses
try to be practical
even when they are annoyed,
they prioritize others
over themselves
while grumbling about
soggy s'mores,
tempered dreams,
suffering to pay bills.
Everything is terrible,
and there are always,
always things to fight for.





04 May 2016

May 4

Ask not what your country
can do for you,
or you risk
getting killed by it,
and yet challenging bloodshed,
preventing
the imperialist fist
from bludgeoning
foreign neighbors' faces
is met with the force
of a hundred fists
bruising and bloodying
our own faces.
If each life is a gift,
and we have the right
to protest when
each life is threatened,
please, please,
please
stop
killing each child
who challenges your fist with a dream.





02 May 2016

I Try To

I do my own hair
and makeup.
I tie
my own noose
because that's what those
old phone chords
are for.

I am quite a catch
so tangle me up
in your nets
and trap me.

I am smart and funny
and a Hufflepuff
and I'll huff and puff
and blow
your fucking house down.

But I try to love.
I try to love you.
I try to.






20 March 2016

Tell the Stories

I want the long version; I want the long story.
I want your voice vibrating off my clothes, off my glasses,
off the thin walls of this yellow room.
We are tied to a location, a smell of fried meat.
We are tied to forgetting.
And I will tell you that I watch men on TV
saving me over and over
but that I do not want to be saved
once the screen is off.
And I will tell you that I want ambiguity and shades
of gray in my books and shows
but that I do not want them in my life.
I want the long version.
I want you to sing to me;
use a dead language if you have to.
Tell the stories that tattoo the walls of your bedroom.
Tell the stories that will carry me, the hot air of
your breath filling the balloon of my craving.
We are tied to a location,
but that doesn't have to be true.
We are tied to forgetting,
but you can remember me
for as long as you need me.



02 March 2016

In like a lion

One spring breath, lilacs
and grass, would be
a happy ending--not a
wedding, sure, but
there is a knife in the gut,
the origin of the daily pain.
Oscillating like
a pendulum between
wanting to live and
wanting to die, I don't want
to disappoint anyone.
So I stay,
and the dirty names
leave grease marks
on my heart. Why do I
decide to disappoint myself
instead? Why am I
never my own muse?



16 February 2016

Hate Mail



It is easy to write hate mail, just as it is easy
to confess a secret to a stranger. It is just as easy
to keep your head down and not make
eye contact on the train.

I spend a lot of my time being unfair.
I spend a lot of my time not knowing the full story.

It is easy to wrap ribbons around the details,
place your finger in the middle and have someone else
tie the knot. It is easy to see things as black or white,
and it is easy to judge a sweater on a hanger
in your great aunt's closet.

Because she would regularly donate
her fat clothes to you,
it is easy to judge what you do not want.

It is easy to be human, in other words.
It is far easier to be right and narrow.
It is far easier to make mistakes
every day and blame someone else.

I blame myself for being a placeholder.
I blame myself for being a bookmark
in a novel you promised to finish.
You promised ten years ago,
and I promised to wait.



12 February 2016

Lost

I want to believe in your hypothetical gods and where they live, among lost socks

and found Tupperware lids and old keys to buildings that have been knocked down,

places in the pockets of history.

I want to believe in your flawed visions and muffled voices, echoes that cheat us

out of words and add vibrating blurs to our dreams,

places in the pockets of history.

One of these days, you will have to accept my sweaty palms and my shaky words.

One of these days, I will have to fall asleep on your shoulder and trust

that you know where you are driving, where land meets ocean, where we go to rest.