number the stars, the sluts, the saints: we are all
here, in a hell we can’t escape.
and my father said
I was just like him. my mother said
if I painted my nails black
I would become a heroin addict,
a fucking drama queen.
can you hear the lights in the city
flickering?
they are like us: they are crying in color,
waiting for sex and death and
lies and love. they are young
anthem lights, high on wine
flushing and flashing with urban champagne.
my eyeliner drips when I cry;
but I have not killed,
I have not made camps of jews.
my mother was right,
my father was wrong.
the last pavilion 