Stain (draft)

Poppies, German fields, something
about death and life cycles
foreign, faded papers and
red, rusted bicycles

I do not belong here.

I sigh. Shift, and sip my wine.

Poetry readings bore me
All these pricks with their monotone voices
Empty, soulless pretty words
and not one damn insight or meaning
in the whole bar

(I wonder if I can sleep with my eyes open
and people will think I'm just lost in verse)

In my purse, my own poetry volume
And my intent here was to schmooze
I am pretty and proper
despite lack of black turtle neck and beret
(yes, some fucker is wearing a black beret)

I am not one of these pompous
overly-edited, overly-educated pricks
who have nothing to say
but derivative drivel
that spills out of thesauruses
and rhyming dictionaries
but not veins

I am cocky.
I embrace that I might just be
something new and rough
jaded and raw
unpolished and spontaneous
ugly and truthful and crazy

I like it.

Blinds

I live in a house of black cats
forty-eight stairs up in the air
and sometimes I feel gravity
ain't got nothing on me

I don't have a job
I don't have much money
and when the blinds are closed
I can pretend it's not sunny

stalemate (half asleep draft)

i don't know what to do
with this beloved, kind man in my bed
who says he can't love me yet
because he's afraid I'll break his heart

through snot and tears
I say I don't know how long I can stay
because if he doesn't want to lay claim
he'll break my heart

i want to punch walls
i want to scream from my fire escape
i want to stare down new york city
and get out all the things i dare not say

we are supposed to be wise
we are supposed to be twice shy
I know, I know, I know

but love can't be a chartered course
it can't be planned out at desks and offices

and i can't help but shake the feeling
that if only i were someone else he hasn't met yet
that he could let go
and appreciate the difference between
tripping,
falling,
and fainting

photosynthesis

the bleeding has stopped
i am clotted and bandaged

i have put the lava back in the volcano
i have contained the hurricane in a can

in the moment it felt free and beautiful
to cry on your shoulder, to open a vein

my voice cracked, i wanted to beat you bruised
it's no secret why i turned off all the lights, the tv

how can two people inches apart
feel hundreds of miles away?

the apartment still, fishtank bubbling softly
broken refrigerator roaring, frosting, defrost

and me whimpering and clutching
begging you to let me in
then begging you to let me out

and me simmering and worn
begging you to let me go
then begging you to hold me tight

i am lunar, i am tides
i can't help the way i ravage seashores

you are solar, you are periodic and predictable
perhaps concealed by cloud, by storm
but still there, steady, waiting

i rise and writhe, i disappear and shine
i am phases, i am reflected photons
i rule the night, dwarf further stars

and sometimes, just sometimes
i am faded and soft and white in your day
demanding your light
and distracting your photosynthesis

provocation (draft)

you can't be this good, this patient, this sweet
i shall provoke you
not of mal-intention or black heart
but i need to see, i need to see

you can't be this loving, this calm, this devoted
i shall poke you, push you
I need to see how far you swing away
before you swing on back

I am used to pendulums
mostly broken and erratic
I am used to patterns, askew

So forgive me, love
if sometimes I run away
I know it's not fair
to test you, to not trust you
to turn my back
just to see if you will still be there
when i am brave enough
to look over my shoulder

Ms. Violent Vanessa

Ms. Violent Vanessa sits inside
She is into scratchiti and tattoos
Ms. Violent Vanessa supposes
She draws conclusions
in bright red nail polish
spilled on kitchen counters

Ms. Violent Vanessa doesn't get out much
She is a victim of the Good Girl Guard
Ms. Violent Vanessa can read, she knows
She knows the details of the restraining order
and despite her flaws and flailing nature
she respects the law

Ms. Violent Vanessa misses Riot Grrl
She remembers Bikini Kill and the babes lost in toyland
Ms. Violent Vanessa was born wrong
She bursted onto a dead scene and
was tragically conceived, planned, and eugenicized
to not have a tongue

Ms. Violent Vanessa tastes like amber candy
She has sat away from the sun too long
Ms. Violent Vanessa sours and preserves
She is canned fruit, dusty, in wooden cupboards
in a house long abandoned, forgotten
by people who couldn't afford cardboard boxes

No one likes Ms. Violent Vanessa when she's angry
No one likes Ms. Violent Vanessa when she writhes
No one likes Ms. Violent Vanessa when she tries to explain
that all little girls, all sold-out women, all dried prune ladies
sometimes need a place to scream, seethe, and dream

the first month

am i synth or strings?
am i pounding or caress?
am i a lover or just a whore
beneath a thin black dress?

turn, turn, turn
i can dance when properly inspired
even i can trip and supine
when so appropriately inclined

and i'm pretty sure that i am
capable, that i am able, and aware
i have decided yes, that i am worthy
it is a brilliant, grape-flavored decision
bubbly, infected, and springing to sensation
that yes, i can love you
and yes, i can agree to the terms
of life, leisure, and lunacy
and still keep my maiden name