snarky

I think I may be too snarky for poetry
Evolved and matured beyond giggling and rude
I am polite and patient but sometimes
oh my fucking god
sometimes I am balled over by pretentiousness
and the narcissism and the delusions of grandeur

I draw broad conclusions but perhaps in sand
the ocean breathes, reclaims my perceived brilliance
the particles realign, shift, a shaken etch-a-sketch
without the supposed permanence of ink and page

I too want relevance and admiration and legacy
and I wander into self-importance and warm too much
and glitter too much when under the spot, at the mic
but at night i return with bags full of unsold books
and wonder if I am too much of a coward for poetry
too soft hearted and crazy, too suddenly shy and lazy

Snarky feels safer

joy division

I paint today with rain
Between strokes I gasp for relevance
Where I used to ask for meaning

I'm listening to Joy Division
Love will tear us apart
emo anthem, brushes dropped

I am on the wrong
side of the river
Of the pond
or maybe just
upside down and wandering
on overpopulated southern
city plains

I face North
wish for magnets in my heart
and some sort of passion
direction
a guiding or yanking hand
I am godless seeking a sign
I return to neutral
to Brooklyn
with open yet scarred heart

I hit "repeat"

Natasha

We call her Natasha, jokingly
She's the girl who wants to
"fuck you away from your girl"
I say without slur but perhaps some slander
He likes Natasha, says she'd probably succeed.

Now that he knows that she exists he calls to her
I stand guard with my morals and my self respect
He says he's going to leave his girl, anyday now
and I hate that he's so handsome, that he's so into me
I hate that he knows about Natasha

My last love left me for another
I swore I'd never be that kind of girl
Natasha doesn't give a fuck
says "wouldn't it be nice to be on the winning team
for once?"

betwixt and between

Between broken hearts
I wander Grand Street
From one drink to another
From one bar to the next
I can't find my home

Up in the air, up in the humid atmosphere
I live above clouds and without a ladder
Forty-eight steps to my elevated hell
I retreat to inner chambers, to Bukowski, to dry, spilled tea

Between lips, between his teeth
A string of mango, a strand of black dyed hair
A sore, a bleeding thing to tongue
Perhaps a memory, perhaps that last letter I wrote

I must exist in 2007 somewhere in him
and I must project a projectile, an emotion
A stir-stick, a confusion, a lowering of guards
I must be there somewhere in pack-ratted piles
I must slither and I must stick to the bottom of his shoe

I know I must, I have, I will, I be, I've been
there before, crushed and snorted, drank and spilled
or perhaps just crusty mayonaise on dirty counters
I've been, he's tasted, I've screamed and wallowed
and I know on some level, on some mental plain
with the rocks and falls and scratched knees
I am somewhere there in his mind
a bump, a marker, the slightest hint of dna
a ghost, a scent, a forgotten toothbrush, a book inscription
in his mind, in his box of me, there i must be

but for now i wander

Between broken hearts
I wander Grand Street
From one drink to another
From one bar to the next
I can't find my home

leaving williamsburg

The bathtub drain has been pulled
I bent down with chipped nails, a girl
and raggled, bedroom-ravaged hair
Yanked the chain and consumed the swirl

things just ain't gonna be the way they used to be

All things considered
I'm doing better than if I were a man
I've learned how to apply mascara
And can balance in fuck me heels, look ma' no hands

things just ain't gonna be the way they used to be

We spent years wrestling this great city
It's calm, it's sedated, a breathing heaving mass
beneath our drunk and bruised bodies
We're grown up now, we're tired, graying fast

things just ain't gonna be the way they used to be

We're leaving Williamsburg, we're surrendering to hipsters
White flags to the yuppies, our backs to Bushwick Ave
The bar on the corner, our regular status, we're grifters
Last call, it's time to go home now, it's time to grow old now

things just ain't gonna be the way they used to be

like in mighy ducks

Well it's not a DWI but it feels kinda the same. Ending up becoming a teacher/counselor/coach because you're a fuck up and you're forced to give back and then discover you're not as much of a fuck up as you thought?

Spend most of my day looking at teaching programs. Filled out the FAFSA. We'll see. Yes, we'll see.

Ick

I can't seem to stop crying. Just sitting here zoning out watching tv and tears keep falling unchecked down my cheeks.

I know I'll be fine. I know that it's probably just stress and PMS.

If it's not better in a couple days I'll go see the shrink I used to see.

Just sitting here trying to desperately think of ways to make some stupid money.