i wouldn't

my legs turn purple and orange when I take showers
my face turns red when I'm drunk or laugh too hard or
randomly when I speak out in class
my hands are slightly more yellow than
my arms and
I get a dark crease on my stomach
when I lean forward in my chair

I wish those were the colors they meant
those people that said
'wait until she shows her true colors'

a horoscope poem, pt. 1

aries:
look for hope in the space beneath your bed,
next to the pairs of socks you wore long after dirty.
ram of mine, stay angry or the world will dissolve
into shades of medication, dramamine for the plane and
advil for  your frequent migraines, hard consonants that
sound too much of alien planets. fix your troubles: set your
thermostat to 73 and flip a coin.

taurus:
grip the wheel and lean your body into gravity's arms
when driving around steep curves. the weather this week
will be teenaged car accidents and death that skids out
of control. let your bull-hands hold too hard on the
things you love and don't be afraid to strangle.
if you clean the moldy food out of your fridge
you won't feel your own mortality so much.

gemini:
your hardwood floors are killing your softness,
darling twin, carpet your world! men with binoculars
watch through your keyhole. lock the doors.
keep them out. the only hardness that belongs
in your heart is a whiskey miniature; the only man,
a moon in a dream you had once.

cancer:
sing songs of longing to your showerhead when
the bards aren't looking. there is only so much birdsong
 you can see before you die-- don't stay inside long, little crab,
 the walls will keep you like formaldehyde. pretty girls
with painted toes and short smiling fingers wait for you
at the stop sign between here and nowhere.  find them. smell
in their skin every flower they've ever picked.

We Are Not In A Bar

But if this were a Contemporary American Poem
There would be a bird or a ghost
Passing through you like music through a stained
Glass window or a newspaper
Through the street.

No, it would definitely be a bird,
A hummingbird to be exact
And you would be cupping it
Like it was the last snowflake

And its heart would be beating
or not beating.

But this is not a Contemporary American Poem.
There is definitely not a bird,
And if there were, it would definitely not be a
Hummingbird. And there is
Not a ghost.

You thought there was a
ghost, But it was

Just R-Kelly's Memoir, Soulacoaster
Which is like a ghost because
They are both transparent.

No, this is not a Contemporary
American Poem. This is a party.
And you're here, and you're enjoying yourself.