what a vain poem.something is wrong with the length of my hair.
mermaids are glorious with manes eight miles long
and they don't even have to comb it, god damn, the ocean
does it for them
and art nouveau damsels have eighteen-hue and broken glass sparkle eyes
spiral galaxies coming out of their scalp, and god,
that's hair. that is hair.
even the faeries are born with it
incredible fathoms like pastel creeks that pour infinitely out
and they have to pile it all up tidily and tie it with a cat's whisker
to keep it from ruining their citrus-sheddings wings
and i am a girl, and i hide in my hair
way in the back where the knots all ensnare
and i do not need a map to find my way there
through thickets and forests and shampoo and wear.
my hands are always cold.why do i keep stuffing ice cubes into my mouth?
they're freezing, and they make my teeth hurt
and the crunch is sad and bitter on my red gums
everyone around me is shaking their heads, sipping on
tasty slushies, arms linked, the full weight of summer on their backs
asking me, "why do you keep stuffing ice cubes into your mouth?
you silly thing. stop that. it's not good for you."
and i know it's not
and you know, i don't want to be doing this, either
but i can't stop.
winter, y'know. it just keeps on coming.
in my mouth.
and i swallow it down whole.
spitters are quitters.
sometimes when i read, i find interludes
spring and autumn, a cold drink, a warm blanket
and there's solace in watching porn
or sleeping through a good film and kissing
walking down the sidewalk, listening to a new album
popping ice cubes in my mouth
i don't even realize it
there's just a sudden, overwhelming
i avoid the stares of people around me, it's such an embarrassing habit
i'd awful love to break it
the bed is empty.if this is love, i
no, that's not good, i mean
you're perfect and i'm
i don't know
i am a half a pair of earrings
the dregs of cold tea
i am old on the inside and blind and cannot
see the things you saw in me
can i start over? sorry
i wanted to say that, uh
i miss the book i gave you
the puppy we got together
and i want to find a house with you
and saplings and
i'm not very good at this am i
i am bad
and i told you so
and you assure me that you'll never go but
what if i'm not the prince! what if i'm the bad guy?
what if you have this all wrong and you're
deluded and stupid and inept
and sweet and kind and beautiful in every sense
go back to bed.
gnossienneplato points at me, from an altar,
crown of thornes on his brow
"you, my love
are no writer, not a poet
you'll try to help others
while being a lost bird yourself
you are the priest
find a congregation."
move forward, some years
in black garb with a little rabbit hutch house
and a book full of pressed flowers
i walk through town, smiling and laughing
greeting everyone with blessings
i am such a secret keeper, you see
everyone mumbles, confiding, in me, their monstrosities
but i cannot judge them, i am just as bad, believe
when i say i am awful
i am as awful as the sea.
the sun is setting.
i lay in bed, counting shapes, crying over how
meaningless they are.
my library is dilapidated
and i hide it under old pashminas
my heart is dilapidated
and i hide in in my arms
my body is fevered
and though all of my insides are dead, snow white's forest
i cannot put me out
no, for the love of anyone at all,
i cannot put me out.
i can't wake up.
i stand, papalian and adored,
the old marmalade jari dont need the sugar cubes
or baby food
or goodwill shoes
i just want little pinpoint hips
and pretty lips
and feet that wont trip
i do not need to eat you know
i could wither to the bone
lovelier than shining stone
starving till i sigh alone
and my bed leaves no imprint of sleep
my thinnest wrists a dream
i dwindle, dekindle
on needled spindle
till i gather at the
may 23rd/'maryland'i wish the marriage license said
if he has one nervous hand on the steering wheel
(the one with the hair tie you gave him that he won't take off)
and the other is on your thigh
and you feel nothing but its well-known weight
the way the heat of his palm burns through your jeans
and the radio is off but the car is quiet
and he just stops and mumbles "i love you" every exit
making your heart tumble and fall backwards into
chardonnay, roasted marshmallows, the first kiss
the priest won't know that the rings and the reception
mean much less
than the "i do" that came 'tween them
and the fact that he loves you more
than paper or poetry ever could.