Let me start over, Sylvia,
a woman I knew once
pushed me with my own hands,
the force in proportion to the smallness
of my palms. Psychics scare me just because
thinking I know what they will tell me isn’t
what makes it real. They could
and I assume there’s more than one at the time
but the news wouldn’t be good, you know?
Constant inflammations keep me on
not the edge of my seat or something rather
near tears but on it no less perched for hurting.
That sounded like hunting, didn’t it?
I leveled my aim months before you.
Place mats in back of hair seemed
the directive while a wriggle is an indicator that some
things happen when you push a button even
if it’s just a sound of the placebo.
I say a lot of things with my mouth, man
some bougie shit comes out like raps when I’m home
alone. I made a playlist of every song in my library
that uses the word lonely. But the bourgeois
loneliness, that’s just for poors in denial. Nobody wanted to
marry me again today. I won’t keep you waiting long,
my love. I’ll hang all your
pictures in the hall so I can knock them down.
The real shame here is that Shamu is a girl
in a tank top performing masculinity just
like me and my undercut desires. Crafts,
another way of saying to the world “I don’t have
enough to do without this scrapbook” and memories
and table scraps. Bougie girl won’t eat
off the floor on her hands and knees even
though the five-second rule is bullshit
too I’ll call your name and request my final
meal. Just wieners.
Sometimes the endings are more like jokes to these
but who knows about my audience. I guess it’s you
guys looking at me. How’s my hair? I tried to do it
so it’d be suitable for the chair. Now I’m proving I can
rhyme poetics and junk it up with some clunkers
here and there. Down the rabbit
hole. Swallow a whole
bottle of pills one day at a time. Measure’s
inaccurate in a curate position. I guess you see
what I did there. It was a pretty slick move.
Last December it took too long and I was
lonely. A little bit broke and I started
ending things with verbs. Vocables,
electrocutions and elocutions. Really
he had no idea I meant my hands when I said they
pushed me out of bed. My own want me
away from the place of consenting sometimes
I think again maybe I’d rather be chaired.
When I wrote this I had diarrhea
not of the brain but the real kind that comes out
your anus. I’m really slowing down on these.
This afternoon I went by the place
I’d dropped him
off and hoped it wouldn’t make anyone else
as sad as I remembered being. That was it.
Trying to speak French turned inside
out. Out out damn spot. Parting is such
sweet sorrow. What a fucking lie,
right? I’m looking for some approbation here
it’s okay for you to respond but please
only positive words welcome
because I’m sensitive.
Not liking the kitchen isn’t a reason to leave
or not do the dishes. Living in
in in in. fuck in. fuck me in at night. What
am I coming to?
Everybody’s moving in with their boyfriend and I
decided to get a tattoo: “ME”
all caps on my ring finger,
call my artist my jeweler
when I go in for touchups. Get it
sized up (cuz I’ll gain weight). I’m watching
my figure. The way I figure it
I’ll be that sprinter-poet. Shit.
Spinster poet. Write it all at once
like once is a place you’ve been and can
go back to it.
My boyfriend dumped me on
my birthday. I’m not bitter
but I am a liar.
Never going back there
(lie) where boys are
appealing. Fights with myself
always end in sex.