Death School (Goth Jams)
When the volcanic sand stops falling in my hour glass I wake up and go to Death School.
I ride the death bus down the avenues of the dead.
I hoist the Jolly Roger up the flag pole.
I am first chair in the bone flute, which I carved myself.
I specialize in requiems and sing the Lacrimosa in choir.
I am very polished in my death studies.
There are people who are not goths at my school.
There are many preps in khaki cargo pants who want to be doctors,
and I resent them as they giggle over the corpses in Anatomy.
Between classes I go to Davy Jones’ Locker and pull my death books out.
I recite the formless speech of Cynothoglys,
the mortician god, when called upon.
In the cafeteria we can only eat what we kill.
So I kill. I do what I do to make the grade.
For intramurals I play death soccer, take polychrome pottery,
make urns to house the ashes of cats, my ancestors.
I am a very excellent student.
At night I wear a cloak and grab my favorite knife.
I go outside. I stand very still in the shadows. I begin my homework.
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.
i’m not always good at doing things in their entirety
so i guess i am proud of myself for completing this…
April Poem #18
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.