another life, another time

armpit tat

the impulse to be impulsive and stop analyzing, drives me
to think of (for one day) the first tattoo i want.
im about to have another mark on my body.
i think of:
breast feeding a child
being with a new lover
having several tats and living like a kid who will never grow up
or is it me? will i ever?
should i stop trying to... grow up?
make money, feed myself, but never go corporate.
stop worrying what it might seem like.
like a job interview
and a wrinkled skirt.
dirty hair but cool shoes, what matters?
it depends.
so its best to think of you.
who you really are and who you really want to be.
and i want to be a woman in chicago with a balloon tattoo in my armpit.

needs work. in class poem. 6/8

exercise from the poem 'Reunion' - Marie Howe

the first and last moment i loved him was in his apartment bathroom in san diego.

i was bobbing in a tub of bubbles, scents of lillacs and skumky puffs of marijuana clouds circled our skulls. so high.

he sat on the toilet seat, staring at my face, ignoring the slips of scenic body parts
popping from the foamy surface water

i never felt so safe or wholly loved by a man.

class exercise 2

chosen lines. mad-lib it.

dont think about the ship in the bottle.
problem is, you forget yourself.
sometimes we burn our stories page by page in the oven.
all the balloons left without saying goodbye.
we broke open the pinatas only to find a smaller pinata.
i am a seed which spring never carries.

ignore this pattern of presents.
never forget, you'll need to impress me
always we are giving things and things
to win appreciation.
all the side glances hidden in an instant.
we shoved colorful ribboned boxes in each others
mouths. and we didnt choke.
we are a people who are hungry for objects.

class exercise 1

chosen lines combined. mad-lib it:

your manic anthems shame my sleep
i wok ein the night and begonias flew from my mouth
eventually, our town forgot your exodus,
as towns will do.
comfort meaning the satisfaction of longing.
im asking what binds know body and mind
the bones of a person or thing is meant to produce artistic work.
often, i imagine them slowly moving toward each other, like islands
cicadas still buzzed fiercely for their mates.




your disheveled looks embarrass me
i walk into the coffee shoppe and you don't look up.
suddenly, i feel alone in the presence of strangers, but we're all alone anyway.
and by strangers i mean the people who have all seen me naked.
im considering what hurts, my brain or my heart?
the scattered patches of the chest-hair of a man-boy still is creating attachment
often, i imagine them slowly moving towards each other, like islands.
but the caffeinated hipsters are still impressing themselves with apathy.

class poem 3

apparently i had attention deficit disorder,

which made me way cooler than the kids

who ignored me. they did, however,

notice my over-developed chest,

probably thanks to hormones in the milk

and i used duct tape to conceal myself.

goddamn birds. all my life they have

mistaken me for their own, pulling

at the back of my collar, flapping

wings, those prehistoric things

in my face. i still have nightmares of bald eagles

in these dream, i am an indian.

my woman who gave her life to me before

I was born, a mother since her own birth

from her I learned the perfect way to crack an egg

and a terrible way to make people love

giving and giving until there’s nothing left

expecting the world in return

this man, he flew airplanes and hot air balloons

and was never meant to be a man

or a father, being an eternal boy

he loves only himself

and the good ideas that people

might have of him

on the playground, too young to bleed

from a place other than my knees

my feet slip from the starting monkey bar

in slow motion,

my pelvic bone collides with concrete

and my hymen evaporates

my insanity was not saved by savior

but by knowledge of

metaphysics and music, mainly

that of the pseudo-homo rockers

of the death to disco era.

I owe my life to david bowie.