Category Archive: Poetry

Jul 07

E.E. Cummings

I don’t think that I’ll age well. I was counting on poetry to keep me young like some kind of island or some shit that gives the mind a much needed respite… but look at Cummings: never worked a straight job; traveled to Europe frequently; given a generous allowance; had someone else father his child; …

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Jul 07

An Open Letter to You Know Who You Are

you were right. you      [who have been lucky enough             to complain that no one             ever advocates on your behalf]      were right. i victimize myself. you      [who have never heard a sexpot             with twice your muscle mass             crack laughs on your body             from a foot above your head]         were right. i can’t take a joke. you …

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Jul 07

I always drive over potholes

leave the mayonnaise out overnight, blue lid flung carelessly on a table of toast crumbs I drip mustard on the white shirt you washed just last night and hung up in your corner of the closet I drop cookies in the bottom of the oven let my cheese bubble over the blue bowl, onto the …

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Jul 07

Song From a Slowly Sinking Ship

…and when she’s gone, door clicking shut behind her, I crawl into the bathroom to hover over the sink and puke (a strange new daily ritual), then stop and stare into that pale portrait that is my ghostly reflection painted dead center onto the mirror’s frame. I study every line, every grey hair, every crimson …

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Jul 07

Readjusting

And he was thrust back out Into the world, his life, all of it as half-assed and broken as before, the day too short and bright again. He muddled through it as he always had; the job and the wife, the places to go and things to do, dutifully saying hello and thank you while …

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Jul 07

Like A Radio With Moving Pictures

I dreamt I had a box in my living room, like a radio with moving pictures, and it was holding me hostage (in my Barcalounger). I dreamt my box was made in the image of a rich man a fat man a man with halitosis in his voice (I could smell it through my ears). …

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Jul 07

the rich make the rest of us

accomplice, often gladly enough so gladly, we take pride in their easy rides up our hard knockers, they slip us mickeys, we text them g thanks in the bra less morning. –Bree

Jul 07

Medea of Flies

She dreams the faucet pours hair— oily and thick, almost animal— into the polished porcelain of the bathroom sink. When she wakes, she is aware of a body, a young girl buried in the plumbing beneath the house. The newspapers say nothing. While he’s at work, she folds his shirts and watches a hurricane waltz …

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Jul 07

What Are Holidays But Days

Why not just get fucked up The Worlds gonna end anyway Not the way the media keeps spinning it Besides everything is impermanent Even the media Besides there is christmas money & ghosts glide so easily through the room Winter’s cold depression settling in Everything white & dead Like we needed something to be depressed …

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Jul 07

Anything but a black umbrella

walks in bobs among highrises, glassed mansion hotels, ancient steeples. Under striped-rainbow pastel, my face beams where others’ glare gloomy and drab, morose funerals beneath shrouds of black waves of colorless shelters and mourning cloaks, gathering in mantles with the thunderheads. A stray ambient light coming only from one uncontrollable pastel rainbow refusing to be …

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