Archive for November, 2009

Yeah Baby, You Know What I Like

November 30, 2009

We’re only this age once,

you know.  Someday twenty

or thirty years from now I’ll

whine and sigh at a bathroom

mirror about how smooth my

shoulders used to be when I

was young.  It might make me

cry.  It might make the mirror

uncomfortable, not knowing

how to soothe me without

getting more involved than

it really wants to be. I’ll punch

the mirror in the face because

I’m feeling angry and don’t

have a healthier available

outlet.  I’ll want sex real bad

because I’m feeling vulnerable

but kind of strong and sexy too

because I just fucking killed

that mirror like I get paid by

the hour to be a total badass.

Since this is my poem and I

am in control, there’ll be

someone there who wants

to have sex with me and

thinks it’s hot that I just

destroyed the bathroom mirror.

Neither of us will have to go

to work in the morning.


It will be the best night

I’ve had in a long time.

Blood Relations

November 29, 2009

I would like for you

to stop being such a

dumbass for just one

second and notice how

the blood pumps in your

ears.  Is it in C# minor?

Does it brag about its

grandchildren? Does it,

God forbid, agree with

Glenn Beck?  Lie flat

on the grass and feel

it all rush horizontal

to where it belongs.

It says nice things

about you when you’re

not around and doesn’t

complain about your


note-leaving habits or

increased consumption of

fried chicken, which you

should really stop because

the plaque and resentment

will catch up with you



November 25, 2009

there are so many things I am trying to say

in one breath, about how many men

have carved their thoughts into

my breasts and left me an unfinished

story lying belly-up on beds and tables

begging for a merciful ending.

I don’t want this to sound like porn,

I want it to sound like every real

and aching thing you’ve ever

heard, I want it to turn your heart

inside-out and make you feel

fifteen again, tender and green

and without shame.

I want to hold every

dying thing in my lap

so it’s not alone, just in case

dogs and mice and pigeons

can tell the difference between

“something breathing is here” and

“nothing breathing is here.”

I want to drive north on Maurer

past the white house at the intersection

by the train tracks, roll down the window

and yell look what you’ve done, you fucked

us both up ten times over

then apologize and remember

I’m smarter and better now, so

I’m told.  I want you to see

the Tastee Freeze on the corner.

I want you to be there for it

and understand.  I want to

figure out where home is

so we can go there.

Skeleton Key Signature

November 24, 2009

it’s not like magic, it’s like

all big real things

compressed into tiny discs

shut in lockets

around necks that

play songs from

skin-wrapped breastbones,

tones shake marrow, echo

off vessel walls and drive

animals to the hills.

humans hear and burn

their houses, feed their

daughters to coyotes,

bash their sons’ heads

in with bricks and scatter

bone-chunked fistfuls

all over the backyard

like carrion Easter

for vulture children.

What Have I Done.

November 19, 2009

I’ve written a few sketches fer this hur comedy group thang at Ball State called Something Else.  This is the second in a currently two-part series of sketches I’ve written called Laudable Literature.  Here is the first one, which Will Stockton called “intellectually irredeemable.”  He’s absolutely right.  And the title’s spelled wrong.  I did not write any of the puppet stuff, especially the part at the end.  You can blame my friend Kris Knight for that.

Personal Space

November 18, 2009

we’d had enough to drink.

we were faceplanted on the lawn. grass

stole the contact lens from my right eye

and the streetlights became glowy planets.

we crawled in the road, boozy

rocket ship babies colonizing and

assimilating and genociding every

last one of those poor bastards.

after conquering the known

universe, we crash-landed

into each other on the porch,

giggling in the dark, sweating

through our t-shirts. we

subdued the earth, our bellies

gurgled,  and we passed out, happy.

I Think By Now We Can All Agree That I’m Not Very Good At This

November 16, 2009

My opening line is weak.

I am embarrassed that this

is on the internet.

The internet is embarrassed that

I am on it.  If you were

three Olympic judges

you would give me two fours

and a six, a pity six, because

I look sort of like the brunette

you dated in high school.

You lost your virginity with her

and it was not pity sex.  I’ll take

your pity six but not your pity sex.

That isn’t true, I will take your pity sex

and I will like it, a lot, and then you

will also like it a lot and

ta-da, we’ll just have sexy sex.

You don’t like that I said

‘sexy sex’ in a poem

and no longer find me attractive.

I think I am deceiving

myself.  I think stories

I wrote in second grade

are cooler than this poem.

My mom thinks the stories

I wrote in second grade

are cooler than this poem.

The stories I wrote in

second grade think they are

cooler than I am, and

they’re right.

Wearing Heels in a Minefield Is Stupid

November 14, 2009

I would like to violently

remove the front door

with my own two

weak female human hands

and throw it at the face

on your skull holding the

caustic billboard two-timing

slimy gray matter making

the inconsequential whining

grinding down the sensitive

brakes in my brain overheating

with the flare of stifled

impatience, coming out of

a pink-glossed mouth without

doubt about flimsy fictional

convictions – yes, I’m

an insensitive bitch but

at least I’ve put some

thought behind it.

Two Four Time

November 13, 2009

I was a gentler soul before I knew how to operate

a motor vehicle.  I was a gentler soul before

my friends told me being nice was trite.

one time my brother played a song on the piano

downstairs and I held my head because

it moved me.  one time I woke up and my

legs didn’t work.  my mother cried because

she thought I might never walk again.  my

mother cried because our family fell apart

September of last year.  you sing dirty songs

about me in front of our grandparents.  you

sing like James Brown really well even though

you’re white.  people tell me that I am the spitting

image of my father.  people tell me that God turns

the gears in my body.  big dogs make me feel safe.

big dogs killed my parents’ Chihuahuas, which is

funny because Chihuahuas are annoying.  I still

think about how the orange flowers on Degonia

look in summer.  I still think about the albums

you played in the basement, the places I went

in my head when I heard a man’s voice.

Thanks For Lunch, Mom

November 12, 2009

Full on pizza and juice from concentrate
I hum rhythms from songs written by other people
At the kitchen table, thinking
Of a lemming future
That has something to do with kids and a white fence
I guess, I don’t know –
…honey, are you alright?