Its weird to be a flower made of meat.
A really red carnation. People smile.
They like the idea of someone crouched over the barrel of my youth.
They like when I eat a chicken leg.
They chuckle at the occasion of meat eating meat.
At home the ghosts arent as frank but the way they look at me,
I know they are thinking thats MEAT.
The hungriest ghost I know lives in the drain.
He is skinny but fat around the middle
a quietly seeking gaze in wet darkness.
I look deeply down to him and whisper
Im hungry too. Nothing. Thats the thing.
Its the song of a bit of food walking around
with an appetite.
The universe is a creep
dont you THINK!!!!
A cool white planet in the distance.
I have been told that I should drink
or fall in love to write poetry
and I have peed on the street.
This is nothing like a drug portal to poetry.
My druggy self was fat and mute.
The camera was rolling but all that footage lived underground.
It is the voice in my head
the oldest voice.
She calls me up and I sit patiently
with a grey flame in my eye.
And angry I guess. I ghost.
Like I have a little shit in my mouth.
Theres a tendency toward scorn
in my family that I have to temper in myself.
I have to soften the trigger
which is lurid as my mother.
Even at the stoplight as Im gazing.
I HAVE TO KEEP WRITING. LOOK AT THAT ANGRY PIECE OF MEAT. A MAN POINTS. YOUR MOUTH IS LIKE A MOVIE THEATER HE ADDS. IM WALKING DOWN THE STREET. CHICKEN LEG IN A PINAFORE. THE WORLD CREAKS. SOMEONES REACHING IN MY MOUTH, A TOTAL STRANGER. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOULL DIE AND THATS THE JOKE. THATS WHAT SUICIDE IS, SOMEONE IS SHOUTING THE PUNCH LINE FIRST. Only theres no shout, just a hole, other people talking. One day Ill wake up and the universe will know. Men will know. God will. The world will creak and my brain will empty its colors into the air.
It will be morning. Is there a perfect time to die?
It wont be the perfect time. Ill die.
I was this dirty little penny when you met me
but Ive been rubbing up against you
and now Im shiny and youre dirty.
Im a freak
in a nightgown
a cool garden drips.
All this wasted time
could be full of something
but Im always on the rug.
Ive had good ideas
and placed them decorously
around the room,
all the little fish still
wriggling on their hooks.
Ive had more good ideas
and kept them in the liquid
of my mind until they all
started to rot.
Ive made a snack and
Ive called a dead friend.
I dont like everything I do.
Ive let all the ghosts
feel me up
and it reminds me
of being on the subway
the things people will do
if you give them the green light
and then you do.
Well I do.
And then they touch me
and I pretend not to notice.
That is my joy.
Its underwater all the time.
But it has not been a total waste
all this silence.
I think its more of a steak
than a hole.
ITS NOT SILENCE
since now theres no room
in the world unmarked
by human noise.
Ive thought hard about this.
Ive dug a dirt hole in my own
bedroom and lived there
rubbing my clit with a penny
under my blanket
theres an old sandwich
and a jewel.