I sent emails, made plans for phone calls.
I was never very good at connecting, but if written word is to be seen I need to give voice to it.
Not just a face to it,
Or vaguely sexual posing.
I wish the world ran on a teenager’s schedule,
Now now now because we’re double fisting immortality and death,
We have too much life but enough time to lose it.
I plan my blog posts out in advance.
I wonder how the ladies in the television commercials, selling barley or fiber
See anal retention.
At least I’m regular about it.
When you left you cracked me
Like a summertime sidewalk
Garnering questions from commuters.
What was here?
Something larger than life,
Larger than death,
Little did you know
Flowers can grow between the cracks
Beauty in place of destruction.
Blond hair, red lips
White dress and a storm grate.
They pay you to pretend,
Some things cannot be won.
Maybe when the crabs pick me clean
As I lie bloated on the beach
We’ll finally be separated.
You sunk under my skin to the level of connective tissue, you see.
If I would have let you, you would have eaten my bones.
My sallow skin won’t stop you
Nor the brine of the sea
As it carries my toes away.
Will you take my fat for soap, will you take my skin for lampshades?
Will you give back my heart from where it’s mounted on your wall
So I can rest in peace?
No waves for me now
But the waves of nausea from passersby
That’s what happens,
When a dolphin falls in love with a shark.
“And you sit back and ask ‘why so many damn rape poems?’
We wouldn’t need so many ‘damn rape poems’
If America had listened the first time!”
Performed by the Rutgers University slam poetry team.
Every great poet
Started out as a hormonal teenager,
trying to get into someone’s pants.
Lacking the physical skill,
They turned words into roses
And thus college boys
Only cheerleaders get love poems,
Some of us must settle
With month late anniversary gifts.
Every new poet
Dreams of the beauties in the crowd
I dream of the moment
Where someone finally finds something to say about me
That doesn’t rhyme with
Roses are red,
Only dancers get to be muses,
Some of us must settle
With being a worthy pillow.
I’m veering towards Greek poetry;
Every man I date is more and more like my father.
And people wonder why every love poem I write
Is filled with curse words.
I took my bleeding heart up to the highest mountain peak,
Held it high and said
“I’m quite done now, if you don’t mind.”
He said “God help me remember all good losers”
And I said “Baby, I’m the best one there is,
I, who saw grass when I should have seen snakes (someone ought to have mowed it better),
I, who flirts with addiction and madness like it’s going out of style (it’s never been in),
I, who calls others pretentious liars and fakes over the edge of horned-rim glasses and two types of antidepressants and I’m writing poetry right now for God’s sake,
And all I got was this tee shirt that doesn’t even cover the scars.”
God help me remember all the bleeding heart liberals and idiot savants.
I feel therefore I am, you see,
And all I have left is this robot in me.