Stand in the parking lanes
with a stolen golf umbrella.
Saliva glands dancing—
count out that wom-wom bass.
Feed on carnivals with cables
dragging you off in threes.
Cook up the greatest things
that never happened.
Entertain the taste with snacks—
track yr ‘don`t give a fuck’ prints.
Find shoes with teeth for a soul
and gnaw at anything but ease.
i kept picturing death as a quiet afternoon peeling the paint away off an old house in madrid; then the weeping tremolos of wind and suddenly you notice how bare the trees were, how much autumn had traveled through your blood: how silent your own heart had come to be.
People are rivers, always ready to move from one state of being into another. It is not fair, to treat people as if they are finished beings. Everyone is always becoming and unbecoming.
this is not a poem
you had mint eyes burning with copper
smelled of plastic and
mama said you reminded her of milk and
paper never knew you, ran off with a twenty-something
year old who didn’t know
the difference between religion and
i drink champagne and cook
eggs, pour wine on white
sheets, kiss boys with blue
mouths and wet tongues, i
shower in my mothers wedding
gown, i sell paintings of
your wrists, i have become
so free i have no soul,
this is not a poem,
you are a
I like storms. They let me know that even the sky screams too.
One night between sunset and river
On the old bridge we stood, you and I,
Will you ever forget it, I queried,
That particular swift that went by?
And you answered, so earnestly: Never!
And what sobs made us suddenly shiver,
What a cry life emitted in flight!
Till we die, till tomorrow, for ever,
You and I on the old bridge one night.
Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
A culture fixated on female thinness is not an obsession about female beauty, [it is] an obsession about female obedience.