to go home and lay

in the comfort of David Bowie records

and dance with jugs in our hands

li de li de li ohhh

I am interested in nothing more than the familiar

when I go on marching home

Poem for Jenna

Some days i think--*
About Emily Fucking Dickinson

And what it might mean to sit in
Your house and produce

Masterpieces.

walked a lot when young
in the dark
I was scared

now I walk alone
I'm not frightened of the dark
why, I'm growing up

I'm not looking for magic
I'm not looking for anything at all

I hope this peaceful night was shared

you don't come anymore
and I don't wait anymore

peaceful shared night

the summer was deep and green

sleepy and silent,

morning sunlight like fireworks

at the window.

it all ended at once.

it was warm,

that much I remember

moments that followed

became diluted and painful

a hollow memory in my mind

that echoes each time we speak.

missed a day, two short poems in compensation

pink-brown clouds

like dryer lint

blot out the sunrise--

a violent orange

so easily defeated

----------

there are so many things i could have said

but your eyes distract from even the most

imperative thoughts

it's dark by six and with the sun,

you're gone

an open letter to Paul from Tarsus

why don't you relax a little bit,

drop the pen and forget the letters.

oh, Paul, haven't you ever

seen a woman with her hair down,

arching her back like a sleepy cat?

it makes circumcision feel so

unimportant--all this angry ink bled

over a third eyelid when you could

be over another body, inking your

fingernails into some parchment skin.

Paul, I know you read the Song of

Solomon sometimes, let your fingers

walk down to that strange appendage

that dangles from your body like

an extra set of rosary beads, Paul,

I think you stifle your lonely

come-song into a set of scrolls,

inscribe your loneliness with a

couple drops of white ink spilled on

an empty page, still warm with your

body but colder than an obituary

dammit honey

shower till
the hot water's gone

you cant wash off that old
Time
and
Space
history congeals
on your body
gets under your fingernails
in your hair, your ass

go get dressed and grab your
Penguin Classics

you wont have a better chance
to be

cutest girl
at the coffee shop

Missed a poem

It is ok to fail?
It is ok to cry?
It is ok to dance to The Cranberries.

I guess I'll flip my phone
Fish for replies
Ex-something x33

There exists a list of people I made cry
Sing it to the tune of 'super bass'
Break my face against the coffee table

It's not ok to hurt others,
But Foucault says I got biopower, baby
I'll take that over soul power any day

you ran away wasted into the woods
so I followed
you said "leave me alone" "go away"
I sat down on the pavement
you circled around and came back
you said

what are you doing?

I was so confused
I stood up and loved you too