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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| flavors of life.
fruit punch mixes with the taste
of mentholated cigarette,
and the result is a strawberry ice cream cone
melting with cancer.
the machine hops
over sections of pressed fabric
so my prom dress looks like shit.
it doesn't stop the men from staring.
society mandates
we can't play sports
and you are not to sing in public
no matter the circumstance.
teaches young girls
to be afraid at night,
makes men panic
when their last "performance"
was apparently inadequate.
we tell ourselves we are
experiencing deja vu
when our brains are just skipping
like an old record, scratched,
and corroding in dust.
i lick the last traces of flavor from my lips,
a hinted aftertaste
of a thousand burning photographs.
i turn my head and cough out
a hundred melodies never written down,
and twice the unwanted lovers,
the unmade beds,
the understanding of nothing.
you pay for dinner.
i'll let this kiss goodnight go farther than i'd like. | | |
|  | Currently
Mix Tape
incandescent lightbulbs, and other things that can set you on fire.
see related |
how i feel about vegetables. there is very little left to say
you old couch potato;
sit and smile and mostly smoke
in saran wrapped microwave foiling.
artificial butter, it runs through your veins,
but you take more than a sycophantic sip--
it’s all that keeps you alive
and appealing to the corn stalk society.
cigarette holes in lettuce carpeting,
and spilled eggplant, who has a straw?
celery and asparagus do algebra and physics
in an odd fluctuation
between logarithms and temptation,
and someday they will own the local alphabet soup company
where you sit salting your damaged ego with self pity.
what can you do to keep from getting mashed
through your flimsy, calloused cloaking?
the pumpkin and rhubarb keep low-down tragic profiles,
stealing cars and free grandiose delusions
at the local meat market.
the beets are overburdened, choking
on raw, untapered euphemisms.
spinach, aberrant, alone at the lunch table,
how long before we hear about
your suicide in the morning paper? | | |
| it's a fucking time box
set with rustic plastic padlocks
that break and bend like
chains of toothpick
and you don't know what
you're complaining about.
in the big whatever
you've got what ever and ever
and you never talk about the elephant.
whatever to the loss
of the argument
and the hiding hole of your rejected slingshot
swinging both ways with no appropriate target.
you may never remember
that you're not fine,
the greatest of one-word lies,
you say whatever like it's
imprinted there forever,
for godssakes
life is not a giant gothic battle
of wits.
and i clap and stomp and get loud
i snap back the receiver
and say you're
bullshitting through your ears.
| | |
| Spasmodia. A murmur of incapacitation--
This trite, digestive feeling
Has gone too far.
You sigh, a wave
Of memories, irreturnable events,
“Try to sleep,” I whisper
In admittedly depressive,
Desperate tone.
The stance, amiable,
But the eyes are cold.
You are a new doll--
Pretty, with sharply carved features.
Roll back glass into the socket head,
Searing, pointed, thread bites
At the seams.
It’s a sick convolution,
But I cannot take the stare.
In media res,
a convulsion in the land
Of Spasmodia.
March, one foot follows another
Straight out of my frenzied arteries
These broken-down capillaries
Refuse to hold you anymore.
What is with the sad conviction
That this silence is providential?
I fear someday a truce must occur.
And what will you do then?
You will talk pretty, singsong
Like a bird with wings clipped.
A paroxysm, the great disease
You’ve ripped my life a gaping hole
When I built yours a bridge.
The rooftops are tinged in white, I see
Atop the hangman’s knotted tree
I cling to my mistake.
My dear, my darling daring-do
Be glad for the escape. | | |
| lost.
it was a cold hallway
white walls
and empty food court chairs
the bathroom was a papered mess
what did i care?
i feel sick to my stomach
surrounded by people i barely know
we stared, absentminded
at kiddy movies. Pokemon.
sean, thank god
for his direction
or i never could have found the place
he led me back
to the sleeper,
charcoal marks around the face
i sighed a groggy sigh,
knowing we made it
but barely, and not happily
we'll hang around, sit tight, sleep well.
we are all forlorn but we refuse to leave you here
huddled and lost in the middle
of an unforgiving waiting room. | | |
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