locomortiswhen you're on a train with somebody for a long time
and one person jumps off
because the train is getting old and rickety
you'd think the other one would yell, or something
and ask why the other one was doing it
or ask them to stay
but the reality is that they don't and will not
and they will ride that train to the death
it's odd, backwards, awful
cathartic, like quitting smoking
when you're dark and busy and
you can make black puff tar fill your lungs and eat
tissue and bad feelings
to go buy every pack of cigarettes
and get back on that fucking train
you sit under a tree
in the heat
and wait for someone else to stop by.
nobody gets to go home
when home is cigarette cherries and railroad tracks
hold your breaththis place is big and the
bikinis aren't on sale yet.
hungry -- potato wedges?
i think i saw betty, and she
gained weight (good) i'm not
that hungry anymore. my phone's ringing
damn it the summer rain
is hurting my bones, i want to
go back to bed, i sold my
stuffed aminals in a garage
sale -- i want the rabbit back
he was the only friend i ever
try going to sleep in the shower
hoping i will wake up in the
river or mom but i just
wish my hands looked more
i'll just buy a coke and go home.
reciting shakespeare backwardsi can't think about what i do at night
for i am a small god, leading a colony
in my anatomy
and the nuclear oceanic
prehistoric, unprecedented explosion
left by other gods
i have to keep myself in a cage
and lock my own floodgates
wage war, hamlet, try me
i'll sit shivering in my chair
and i'll let you win.
hhwswsi thought all my friends were computers, until you were born from the wires and million dollar paintings
my heart swelled up with ripe strawberries, couldn't even
think crookedly, about the prescriptions that couldn't even
live up to your eyes
i'm breaking up into tiny pieces of dust and
being harvested for the winter
i need a blanket, i need
steal me away
aytatptntytycibin the doll's head
the cub's, duckling's
climb-ed that tree too
high swam too deep in the pond
today and it is just an accident there is
NO SUCH THING AS SAD DON'T lie to me
dolls don't feel these
precious pearls of feelings like you and I knowdreaming like us we're special, special
and it's not like it's baby animals
bee's poemhere is a poem with a mission statement:
the dark days are over.
and i'm going to lie, because you
need it like medication, believe me
i'm real, this is so true like
you're going to be okay
sometimes we make mistakes and
sometimes we kill and
sometimes we search tirelessly in encyclopedias for our name, hoping for a good story to fall asleep to and some security blanket in black text that promises a happy ending
wake up, the bells are ringing, too
and not in your head this time
please breathe, do sing, try laughter, and
i look in the mirror and cannot judge my
laundry-downed appearance, i only cry
with the enormous joy of knowing
i am alive
in my dreams, you were there.i think it's been raining for like a week now and
i will continue living in my room, like i am the little house in the snowglobe
and you can't touch me.
nanny nanny boo boo.
glass armor for your sticky touch, but i can't hide from prying eyes
i will only hope that you continue shaking this silly little object
and sheltering me with more snow and water.
i live on the shelf. a girl walks in, thinking about a magnolia tree she passed on the road
how the wind blew so wantonly that it stole every petal of every flower
leaving only one in a token of appreciation, thank-you-for-the-memories
she finds herself becoming that tree.
"i could be beautiful," she says solemnly, tracing her doorknob to smear the fingerprints.
"this one flower is proof. only you have to find it and trust it."
and nobody trusts a girl in a snowglobe.
it will keep raining for a long time. i will lose faith in the sunshine, and find solace in the lack of it.
i will wear pearls
i will sing often and pen verse.
i will sleep
kill peacocks on sight.the taste of such a bitter paint
plaquing against a pretty smile
i cannot show myself to the light of day, no,
cannot leave an accustomed shadow
had i valued my birds, i would have known
the dissenting value in clipping feathers
embraced a crow, a dove, a jay, a hawk; forgetting
i let the peacock roam wild
leashless, a masterpiece taken by thieves
with no true home
but sitting with them in a cage, now, i see
it wanted it that way.
who does a bird go to
when its nest is taken for study?
there are no eggs to hatch
no gale to tame
a lack of song to give?
the swan, she just
lays in the lake and