12/31

I make my best decisions topless.
and I try to get fresh tomatoes
when I can.
Reading famous poets makes me hot, but not
Tennyson famous,
Transtromer famous.

Sturdy jaw lines prompt me
to question your motives -
I mean, testosterone can't handle my tits.
(they're nearly perfect, you know).

I always try to translate my dreams
into deeper-meaning. Always.
And Carl Sagan speaks to me,
but so does Beyonce.

Other things aren't okay,
but, seriously,
these things are.

11/31

i wear jeans the way i wear jeans
because i don't know how else.
and
i can tomatoes,
hold my pen,
and drink my whiskey the only way i know is right.

there's only one goddamned way to talk
to your grandmother,
so, i do that.

and i let boys touch my boobs,
that can't be wrong.

and i pine for the moon with the universe in my mouth.

10/31

i had a dream last night that a cardinal
asked me (telepathically)
while i was on the roof of my dead dad's barn,

"what am i?"
"what color am i?"

i answered the bird
he flew away.

9/31: how can i tell you about perfect time?

This is what I'm doing:
picking apart your mermaid scales
and interpreting that damn song of yours.

and in case you're wondering, it's rude to say the things you say.

I'm also deciphering the code. It's not real.
the code can't be real.
it's just a curly headed california sunset;
a son-of-a-bitch illusion.

This is what I know:
It's okay to stand on the concrete embankment,
taller than real life
under the pinks and blues.

8/31

Verse One

i can maneuver Indiana country roads like
in between the sheets.

7/31

i can exhume the entire carcass
from it's flimsy outer shell;
tail and all. And if you know anything
you know the tail is the hardest part.

it requires skill -
a delicate concentration.

and after it all,
the beheading, the deveining,
the amputating of each limb,
the poor creature sits on my palm

as gray and dead as a dead man floating.

6/31

i wake breathing air and fall asleep the same way.

i move about the day with these feet;
clean with these hands.
vinegar, maybe, in the sink,
chemicals on my mirrors.

it doesn't matter -
my point is i'm living and soon, will be dead.

like jesus, like dahmer.

5/31

don't we all have a song about a porch swing?

bare feet sliding against the grain of a dirty floor
occasionally, the rusty chains clink, like rust does
and mid-day cars just go and go, oblivious to the lemonade summer.

fuck those cars for not knowing,
for not slamming their brakes
and standing on top of their Buicks
and screaming praise, loudly,
like idiots.

4/31

i stand at the sink differently than someone
who doesn't want -
the way i hold my pen, and put on
shirts.
the seven ways i calm myself before
i pay bills.
the way i use my ATM card
possibly even in the way i text.

everything has a trace manifestation
of a lonely concerto.

but seriously, how?

3/31

i'm a lady
so i won't talk about the sweat
and skin, your face, my face and the promise of your loft bed.

2/31

i have all this skin.
you do, too, i know, but mine is
mine.
and it fits, perfectly, my bones.

and we're both okay when it comes to skin,
but if you wanted it, mine i mean,
(not to be direct),
but if you did,
you could have it.

a small thought on creation.

a trillion suns in a tizzy
lining up alphabetically and preparing for
their baccalaureate. straightening their bow ties for,
well,
creation.

and then, just like middle age, we're all standing around kicking the dirt.

how many times can i hold my breath while i take down my panties?
how many times can there be first sex?