▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶▶I’ve been working on something new for NaPoWriMo loosely based on David Wojnarowicz’s writings, especially “Memories That Smell Like Gasoline”. I don’t know how much I’m going to share as it’s probably a lot rougher than most drafts I’m shared past years, but here you go. Also working on this is very upsetting to me, so we’ll see how far I get….

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I’ve been working on something new for NaPoWriMo loosely based on David Wojnarowicz’s writings, especially “Memories That Smell Like Gasoline”. I don’t know how much I’m going to share as it’s probably a lot rougher than most drafts I’m shared past years, but here you go. Also working on this is very upsetting to me, so we’ll see how far I get….

i hope this isn’t in bad taste
posting this, that is."humblebrag"
but
i’m not always good at doing things in their entirety
so i guess i am proud of myself for completing this…
anyway, may.
🐝🌺🌼

i hope this isn’t in bad taste

posting this, that is.

"humblebrag"

but

i’m not always good at doing things in their entirety

so i guess i am proud of myself for completing this…

anyway, may.

🐝🌺🌼

April Poem #19
Bullet, or, Marie Antoinette’s Life Inside the Marie Antoinette Gun

April Poem #19

Bullet, or, Marie Antoinette’s Life Inside the Marie Antoinette Gun

April Poem #18

BAD EDUCATION

I am a very different student. Camus in my book-

bag and sweaters vesting my tight form. You tell

me you like the safety pins in each ear; it feels

tribal and handmade and could I tell you made

your sweater yourself? I could. There are too many

parking garages. One-winged sunglasses crushed

against the car mats. You are blonde and taller

than me and come to my art openings in leather

miniskirts and leather boots and I tell you one

day I will be a photographer yes everyone will

know my name. You touch my shoulder and tell me

you know my name now. No cameras are allowed.

Encouraged by Bret Easton Ellis, Palahniuk,

thirsty for boyish things. I failed the FCAT,

but I am learning. Which state will we move

to, toward? What dark continent of the internet

will I hunt you on one day, finding nothing

but bandage scraps? Which face is schooling

us, which face should be held down in the back

of the wardrobe, which face makes the entirety

mature, stubbled, altered by a woman’s touch?

April Poem #17 - “Kittens”

Feeding the cats is a spiritless necessity
but it makes me feel important, maternal,
whole. There are things we have to do

to keep our loved ones alive. My lover
is going to kill me eventually and I am
okay with this. If one muscle keeps pump-

ing then I will unbarnacle myself and allow
myself to be violenced. You say, no, no,
I see you shaking your head like that.

Do you even see yourself shaking your head?
You look like one of those baubles in back
of a station wagon in the hot Florida sun.

Do you know what I did in the backseat
of sunshine? I did what I had to do.
I sold lemonade for a quarter. I prayed.

When god closes a lemon he opens a lemonade.
I bit into the coin and could tell it was real.
My lover thinks I will get pregnant, but I won’t.

I have struck a deal with god because I am spirit-
ual. I only have kittens inside me, their hearts
small and pink, each no bigger than a light switch.