I can’t find
my body
in the rubble
of memory

Most nights
I smoke bongs alone
wanting
for the full moon
thinking about
my childhood

I thought I loved
a werewolf-like man

Equally grotesque
and fuckable
born in 1982

Sometimes
I think I hear
the birds that lived
in the chimney
of his room

Their
wet white shit
always 
on the bed

I am most happy
when the air
is thick with jasmine

I am a nicer adult
than I was little girl

Fuck Molly

If I wanted to be happy for two hours
and depressed for two days
I could’ve just stayed sober
and saved myself
$20.

Untitled 1

Sheryl Crow keeps coming to me in dreams asking why the hell I’m so sad,
and when I wake up my friends ask me the same question in more subtle ways
like, “why haven’t I seen you in awhile?”

Untitled 2

I’m gonna write a movie called Twitter
that has nothing to do with Twitter
except that there are 140 characters
and they are all desperately seeking validation.

kaleidoscope shards

when mama showed the world her work
there was an ‘oh’ and ‘better luck next time’
because two daughters in a row is losing the lottery
one more time, spinning the slot machine of chromosomes–
      TRY HARDER       (it’s not that difficult, honey)

it’s not ‘who’s gonna work on da farm’
it’s a name-carrier, placeholder, the
     ‘don’t have be ashamed when you call her inside’
to be on a first name basis with something pretending
to want a baby who can’t work, can’t drive
             BUT YOU CAN COOK TONIGHT (‘cause we drowned the weak
                                                                   pups last week)

well sending her out won’t do
who know what she’ll come back with.
     so there’ll be enough socks and tea,
keeping the fire tended, the house warm
   the gas stove on, the fuel under the sink
   and the lighter in the drawer
       DON’T BE A BAD GIRL (remember we love you)



technical difficulties

sorry
not sorry
we’re experiencing technical difficulties
because I didn’t get rid
of the grease fire
that took over my house
so it took over your house
and watered the roses
with Marc Jacobs
from a morning mouth
hungry for bloody
orchids
clouding with vapor or
contrite mustard gas
I’m so sorry
that it’s so cold
you can’t see through
your windows.

Dear Virginia,
I see you everywhere,
in the stars, in the river,

to me you’re everything that exists;
the reality of everything.

I wish I knew how to write for art
rather than self-expression. 

I’d like to go on for a few lines

without weaving in
the way you make me feel 

somewhere

                        here