poem: love letter to cassandra, 1997

cassandra has her hair in muse of delphi dressed-downedglam -- curls, and a red scarf. she is reading pasternak. my grandmother had her ecstasy moment when princessDi died -- she called my mother for the first time in twenty-five years, and did not apologize, but criedover the phone. I listened from the hallway. I was… Continue reading poem: love letter to cassandra, 1997

poem: outline / satire / art

i thank God for internet aesthetics, that i am able to remake myself in so many, livid, anthologies -- the tide comes like a cusp over my breasts, but it is just my hands, clutching myself, seeing/comparing the male freedomswimming, angrily, through my eyes and then -- thesecold small breasts. i sat in a cafe,… Continue reading poem: outline / satire / art

writing: screenplay #3, “muse”

The window is gothic, church-shaped, above her. She is bending over a wooden desk, working furiously; outside, it is autumn and the light is brilliant and orange. Her hair tucked hurriedly behind her ears, curling out. He comes and stands above her, looking down; there is something unusually serious about him; he is a person… Continue reading writing: screenplay #3, “muse”

poem: shire’s end

rather laboriously, my father was forced into. a marriageand the lavender sucked head, in dreary smokestack columns, all underhis window. the sun was lowand always hot; the gardens sank and gasped,as if as if -- I was metallic lady Diana sat in permanent mourning or waiting or hoping. as a woman, I was alwaysdoing all… Continue reading poem: shire’s end

poem: I could die? a footnote?

or: "aesthetic irl"thirty day poetry challengeday 09– ‘goals‘ the plead tweed coats, manufactured in England or Bangladesh, and ink-on-fingers, cigarettes. leaves Rattling againstthe gothic, heavy windows because what else? /how do I describe James Joyceand Virginia Wolf: like readingemotions. reading the old novels, in cafes(because what else?); the middle-class, they kept writingabout God, now we… Continue reading poem: I could die? a footnote?

poem: my charger

thirty day poetry challengeday 06– ‘my charger‘ was sometimes a wattpad boy (and I mean that ironically and also unironically) -- who wanted to go to Heaven nowrather than later, because it seemed betterthan whatever else; I don't know if that really counts as wanting to kill myself, he said; but I was listing, the… Continue reading poem: my charger

poem: cold war in the fridge and reheated

thirty day poetry challengeday 05– ‘leftovers‘ am I supposed to relate to the third-child motherstanding on the porch with her vaginaon the flagpole and a joint fuckedinto her mouth like a second-smile, the smokesagging through her -- she is Americanmyth; at least during the Depressionshe probably believed in God and sold her childrenwith some feeling,… Continue reading poem: cold war in the fridge and reheated

poem: my father said he was going to the store, we needed milk

thirty day poetry challengeday 04– ‘buy milk‘ I broke down, like my father's car, which had been breaking down again and again, like my fatheralways broke down -- in the parking lotor the pharmacy queue -- where his latestprescription sat whore-ishly orange;he prized them like my mother's tits or my grandfather's slaps or my own… Continue reading poem: my father said he was going to the store, we needed milk

poem: telling him about the affair

thirty day poetry challengeday 03– 'no more staples' no more staples in the mouth, I will(I think) speak -- angel, devil drag medown; cut my polaroid in half, swallow the denser edge, leave mymouth on the vibratingtorn-off edge; I told you all thisstanding on the edge of a mausoleum and your face was white,reflecting the… Continue reading poem: telling him about the affair

poem: old romance

thirty day poetry challengeday 02– ‘CD‘ the CD was a iron disk that she slippedin and out of her mouth, and when he called her from the bathtub she pulled off her skin threw away her face; he sang along to her in the car and laterremembered nothing, it waslike juvenile sex with all the… Continue reading poem: old romance