a fantastic fuck

which way is up and does it matter?
we know which way is down, baby.
(this is the point where i light my cigarette)

interspersed, betwixt and atypical
define me
better.

she wrote the poem in lipstick,
a drill -- a monument to plunder --
on the mirror, on an envelope,
on my heart.

i want to Thelma her,
i want to Velma her,
stains all over everything:
"why am i sticky?"

and i've spent all night grinding my teeth to figure it out.
all i need to do is move my fingers enough to reach.
displacing dirt and grasping the shovel.
scared to fucking death of loving.
or ever being loved.
being touched.
i dig it out.
i dig.

when the waitress asks how many bottles:

Following my 32nd birthday, I resolved to end my life in a way that would at least make an interesting story.  Nevermind the reason or the method... it was gonna be bitchin'.

and i came to,

cast in cool, smooth stone

which echoed every thought

like mirrors in a staring contest.

i met the Buddha there.

what's worse? that we were chums

but i didn't kill him 

-- despite explicit orders to do so --

or that he was just a little racist?

the word character couldn't begin to describe him,

so i folded a piece of paper where i had written my number.

then i folded it again and again until it was a knife.

then i released its strength to reveal crumples.

i folded it again and fashioned hills.

i sat in between two of them.

and wrote a poem:

[see Alan Watts, Tao: The Watercourse Way. 1975]

even in the night,

while avoiding the mirrored globes and cameras,

i could never get close enough

to slit his throat.

let's toss a coin to the unrequited.

she's a siren.
i'm sure.
i call out her name in poems,
books and books of them and she only likes boys.

i got a stick of gum out of the disclosure
-- she swore it wasn't that bad, honest --
no cheerleader would ever lie
right to your face
at her locker
with line of sight drawn to prying eyes.


the hopeless fool writes every song for me, and i write them back,
i'm like fucking Elvis Costello on Mars,
chasing Betty Boop through a cornfield.

her thighs are thicker than mine.
her gait wider by far.
her breath steady.
she got away.
i didn't.

belly button lint

when was the first time you tucked it in?
or did you even notice that it could bend?
i shaved my legs one day before 1st period gym.

my shorts were shorter that day.
legs cutting through the wind.
laughed, mocking drag.
oh, the physics.

the girls approached in a flock, hands in like a huddle,
fa/tg/uys opening up a brand new MTG block,
and i was foil.


a stoic, block of gents aligned against the wall,
who never let me forget when i
snuck into their locker room.

playing doctor never involved so much blood.

witches club

a lawless band of latch-key kids,
kool-aid stains on fingers, hair and lips,
trying to outcool each other and outkid ourselves.

the garbled mess of a failed experiment
to copy the copy of copies that copied
all those stolen cassette.
and the bottom line.
profit margins.
sounds.

i drove past them the other day, and they're still there
-- strangely us though we're not them --
chain-smoking because you can't take it with you,
i will start using my toes to count
the next time one of them dies.


it was the first time i had been to steak-n-shake,
because i was never allowed to stay up late,
or pretend i was Marty McFly.

having to be the good girl for pay is by far worse
than being the worst kind of villain for free.

i still don't get the malt shops,
though i will visit,
and jokingly request beer.

writing my novel backwards

i scraped my knee against the pavement, full sprint my shins into a picnic table,
safety like artillery fire.
i was young, it was dusk, and most importantly
i was bored.
boredom creates rage for me, it suffocates movement
--the town was covered in pond scum--
and i felt alive.

i had never planned, at this point, on being a curiosity...
or of being a doormat.
let the squares drive the boats to church, I'VE seen
gleaming the cube AND heathers
and Christian Slater speaks to me,
in my dreams,
and begs me to kill for him.

so that's how i set about becoming the sexiest serial killer who ever lived.
that's how i found out why the witches giggled at Macbeth.
that's why i failed tests on purpose.
it's why i cried all the time.
it's why i still do.
it just is....


the best x-men character is Nightcrawler, because:
1) he is German
2) he is a dashing rogue
3) he farts through time and space.
this night, i'm Kurt Wagner, darting between cars and streetlights,
curfew? pssshhhh...
this bitch invented the Stealth check,
our town clown just making his rounds.

arrival at the treehouse,
and screams, terrified and muffled,
and a smirking thief in the night emerging.


i never fooled myself that those were good days.
i have never believed that days COULD be good.
they only measure out lifespans.
they only sicken me.
they drag on.
even now.