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ASW no. 2We do not like those
that come in through slits
of the world; woman
are not gateways, and I cannot
be one for you.
But they will die soon,
and you'll be stuck wondering
and doing your name good
justice, screaming gums
for satisfaction and flesh
like man in shackles,
yours bond to the frilly lace
and afterthought of a man
who forgot your name,
so he always whispered
to never-been virgins:
"his name is doom and
I can't breathe any further
than this allows my
waves to crash into you."
ASW no. 1
Wild eyes on those
nights you feel like piercing
with amazing dilation and
"Are they coming,
or is this pupil staying
wide for questioning?"
And he was on the other
end but breathing without
the letters struggling
off vocal folds,
extensions to make out
an ouja-like answer:
and you're left there
ASLI keep trying to recall the motion
your hands made at an awkward angle.
Two half-circles met one day,
and wanted a three-way with a pair
But this was never enough,
we only met at our marks
You never gave me the
7 AMIt's about that time
when my beloved gang
of friends (or something like them)
bark orders of
Hey, put the lights on!
In one note of different tones.
One named Ubu
Got too fiesty with me
The soccer ball name,
so I returned the favor
with a 40 feet long
Wolf on Back of my Back.-edit
This guy came by over a year ago.
A box of little somethings
that tasted a lot like nothing. I forgot his name;
it didn't roll off my tounge as I would have liked it to.
He came inside for a bit and I gave him food to eat
but no place to go, this can't be a home, my little
grey grey box with lies about flowers
all over inside. And a picture of the beach
with blue skies
above my head that mocked me.
He left in days time.
I told him, why, i'd wait on my red and white
He came back again, but with a new mask to flaunt,
and new sweet words to boot.
And I ate them like a bowl of sweet carmel-camels.
The taste was too familar; I didn't care for it.
It was something you should know.
He left the stoop of my chest,
and grey crazy 8 gangs clung to my body.
Sucked the life out out of me-their little eggs ate my soul.
It never returned to me-But I saw a somebody else.
He was fine-tuned, I could play on him good.
Those words tasted so sweet and unfam
Sexy stew.I'll rip a bit-
at the surface of your cheek.
Eat my sweet girl,
eat your meal, your
daddy's in the stew,
I took away all his atoms
and i'm giving them to you.
Taste pain for what it is-sweet.
It's saturated with sex
and whathave you,
it's full of flowers and
some yeast too.
Trust me dear, it tastes so good,
I even grilled the smarts, his arts,
the temporal too.
Pushing you in the fountain
where I swam like the fish I was
Flying me to dry land.
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Stranger's funeralUnder the clouds
Under the rain
Staring at the coffin
At a stranger's funeral
We're all alone
Feeling the storm
But not the pain
For he's but a stranger
And the graves around us
Are just there
Keeping us company
During this empty moment
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
To the Boy Who Likes PoetryHe was a maze of metaphors
but she didn't mind
getting lost in him
raising a warrior never was an easy jobi.
when i was a child i would
sit on the porch in the rocking chair and watch
the sky fall and the ground flood -
safe on my wooden throne, i'd call out
amid the thunder that
it would never pull me to the sky, away from
the home i'd always known; when the storm
would cease i'd stand triumphant
over fallen soldiers, lying
like stained glass and shimmering, rippling --
when i was older
i stood in kitchen and watched you
bake, fingers drumming to the beat of a
war-drum you never could hear -
and you'd tell me stories of sleeping beauties
while i read about the knights
who risked their lives, got angry at the girl --
you taught me how to be
a lioness when you realized this girl would
never be a queen. i was made to rule, but not in
robes, made to claw my way
out instead of sit and watch the fight -
my throat ached to sing
a shout of victory, my skin itched to dance
in a triumphant haze as charcoal painted
the night alive --
and now when thunder shakes
the ground i count its be
i made the universe in a teapoti made the universe in a teapot.
galaxies frothed into the mug,
stars bubbling up through the sepia beauty.
nothing was left outside, everything at the bronze brim,
the sun's edge in ceramics.
i drank the quickcopper gracefully.
my mind was a biscuit,
the milk as time,
lacing throughout the boiling hot space in that second
of pouring creation.
(alpha and omega at once as steam.)
Lamplight DinerDown on Arley P-L,
an assemblage of seven
gather where the light
meets their exposed feet.
Dremels wouldn't do them
a damn bit of good.
Rare is how they take
Well-done is for the
ones behind concrete
and measured glass.
They split the tab in
males never learn share.
I met one at the
with stubby flesh
and dead cells.
all he could do
was recap what he
ate earlier that day.
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