Two Reasons to Get Off My Shoulder
I was everyother god-ridden feminist choking
up screams of patriarchal bananas and howling
at radio towers and glass phalluses in the wessst.
tearing down posters and sticking up screenprints
hiding from the blue-faced Fuzzy fat-rats misplaced
men who want:
a. to smile at my sweetie-cat, or
b. to stick me upon the top of an incarceration page,
take me down for a summons to protect the illegal guerilladvertisements
because THEM GOT THE MONEY, and I wont even smile them peace-protectors a little honey.
Screaming at the sleeping lump squishing me into the
sidebars, my bird wing elbows sticky-doors GET–OFF– MY–SHOULDER, MAN [hurtling through train]
He’s off and he’s scared to tell me, scared it’ll break
the idolization cloud I immerse his mind in, spraying
his ears with imported incense and delicate spindly
Japanese matcha whisks.
He’s off and he’s afraid to tell me, afraid to lose
my love that he fears is only admiration.
licking crusted sea salt from the bottom of the irons.
And I’m bowing out of my first lover’s life, running
off to the Minnesotan desert where I can hook my
shoes on my ears to block out the noise of the
moon, because the moon never SHUTS UP, its monstrous
gaping slimy mouth full of worms o’shredded cabbage,
slobbered and sliding in and out of tiny holes,
pulsating like five million Chiapets and seaworms
miles and miles under the time for a peanut butter
chocolate soymilk smoothie. Like a really
really big organic peanut butter chocolate banana
soymilk trashed at some house somewhere she looks
at me and falls cat-dog spread behind my back
speaking of witch ezz, I felt it on my leg when she
bent to hug the girl in my lap, cold and metal and
sweaty through the velvet (I WANT IT BACK YOU
SELF-ABSORBED PUCILANIMOUS SPRUCED-FOOTED
LACE TALKING COUNSELLED CONVICT!) and
turned on the drill with my potato breaking zymez.
and bored out her brain until she was
apologizing and apologizing, waiting for me to
the trees were
bass in my head,
somewhere to the front
of the frontal lobe,
right at the base
of my spine. I grabbed
some wood pulp paper
and majic ink sticks
and thudded the skinny
staircase down to the
space beneath the stomach
of This Old House and
did eleven good pushups
twice each time an
RATM song comes on
my iPod. I can’t escape
the role of ignorant
listener with the bosch-bordered
screen. Cured a headache
with 4 athritis pills
washed down with
caffeine free cola and a
peanut butter sandwich
eaten with bandaids.
“YOU I WON’T
DO WHAT YOU TELL ME”
Managed to fall off the
map for a whole month
feelin pretty strong about
Part I Continued:
I left them gawking and blinded and went to the
roof to drool over he ashy grey matter. I sat
in the corner gumming her brain while
party-goers burnt blades and the smoke clogged
the eyes of the moon so it was helpless when
that cheese grater was taken to the sky and off
rubbed long strips of blue, revealing the
cold blood of ten thousand poppies red,
so white the vice of mothers behind the shredded
sky. I took a match to a strip and set the sun
on fire, burned to the ground.
The juices rain down my face and out my eyes
until I was monstrous loping from roof to
roof-tipped root, all the way to Meenpoint.
But I know equally that I adventure. In the afternoon
I lace up my adventure boots and trip over gnarly
civil war roots on my way to the underground
beast in whose belly I ride to the city, over the
rats and past the mole people. When I come out,
somewhere around 14th street, and this is undeniable
proof that Jesus did exist.
Part I: Meticulum
I sit at the foot of a beautiful king-sized
bed head board whittled floral and curled
I am majestic in the symmetry
The dust falls down and powders my crown like
gold dust or fairy sprinkles or pepper
I laugh and the dust floats down
My sister’s funny feet dance around with inhibition
in their funny blue coats
I up at Lelia’s call and we out to the yard
Retrieve Mommy’s keys from behind the broken
couch and cover the purse back up with a blackbird
and green non-carcinogenic yoga mat.
The whole wheat flour on the bottom of
my roll catalyzes my sour dough quality
We stomp down the ramp in the yellow of
the bug-attractors and the white of the earth-attracted
Close the door behind you, I wait until I hear the
right noises of the screen door behind the storm
door. It has to close for the storm to open.
We walk over to the garage with my pinky out
and I cannot find the light switch the door
is stuck and will not secure all the way up
properly. Lelia darts under so it does
fall on her head; it is heavy and with holes.
Last summer I watched a little bandit chew
a hole in the penultimate panel of this weighty
portal-lidder. A little face came out and shocked
me with its audacity. We sitzkrieged, briefly.
A massive fluffy caboose exploded from this precious
little hole, and the raccoon spilled into the night and
up the orange fence faded.
We look for sea clamps and I pocket copper wire.
Squatting under the ping pong table Lelia looks for
washers through an umptillion tiny drawers
“Come join, you’re as skinny as I am!”
We crouch together, sheltered and shaded, and search in the
yellow for silver through dark, dark green.
I stood and looked at the dark while my sister
closed the door, and we stepped the steps in sync.
Part II: Delirium
Back downstairs I place the dowels and sea
clamps and washers and wire and bread on
the Big Yellow Work Table.
Mama sits in the corner marking perfect wooden
circles with an orange pencil and a blue ruler,
I sharpen her pencil with the gold from my
I hide on the stairs from the roar of the jigsaw
Mommy doesn’t notice, her brow stays in the same
vein of furrow.
I scream fuck into my metal pole lover, just in
love of the noise my sister talks of a band saw
mommy rests her dominant hand he had a band saw
outside and he put it out on the street and someone
took it, you know how he gets those ideas in his
head that he has to throw things and out by—
I do math problems on the unfinished concrete floor
silver and dull my stripped pencil.
I sit cross-legged and read a baronet-authored
book about cacti, beautiful, wild, exotic cacti,
mostly from South Africa.
This old man gets to traipse around the hot
world and take picture of spikes.
I limp back down the stairs after a broken ankle false
alarm turned crick.
I smile at Lelia and Am I a Hypochondriac? Yes. Is it
hypochondriacal to diagnose oneself as a hypochondriac?
We grin at each other over the big painty yellow table.
I left out a y (why)
You have Woody Allen syndrome, she tells me, my
hands full of fluffy clean towels beneath the bare bulb.
I sing old Appalachian songs and encourage my sister’s
flute’s appearance. I predict our greatness.
In the corner we’re busking in a square and I smile
at Galileo and stick my hands in the pockets of
my Grandpa’s spring gardening jacket.
“My true love’s at the edge of the holler
she won’t come and I won’t foller
Hey um diddle dum a day”
Sobered up from my dharma drunkenness at 5am,
my voice deepens.
I cut wood and she drills and we tell stories through
the smoke of our power tools.
Maybe we’ll finish her term sculpture by morning
At the start of the night I swept and
meditated the breathing of sawdust.
I drink tea and make mistakes.
I finally take the stairs with peanut butter
Fast warm in safe soft bed my hand falls
and I asleep under soft pink and glass.
This Is Not Fresh
And every one thinks he’s the first
to drop his jaw at the words that
the gentle fingers that light upon his face
have dug for veins and smashed glasses and raw
and every none thinks he’s the first
for whom the eyes cloud
and neck twitches and voice grows high and ragged
spitting secrets and mistaken truths
never realizing that those eyes are for
the person standing right behind him
and i'm rolling past time and faking everything
waiting for someone smart enough to call my bluff
by the time the one that mattered understood
it was too late, he was too tired to have me
and now he spews our story on rooftops
spoke the name of the worst girl he ever tried
and summoned the demon in the form of a letter
and wondered why the hell he let her
In Search of the Sea Gate
Swayed by whiskey to the water, they wandered
in search of an ocean. The whitewashed house they
left behind was yellow inside and heavy with drums.
It was cold, but they were drunk. I looked up to the
night fog as I walked with them. The fog rolled in like
adulterous suspicions, hot and hazy. Back in the attic
a boy waited for me, and my friend was vomiting
and asking for her rejected lover. He came. We
cannot be expected to know ourselves. We try
to articulate passion and promises are
made to be broken. I came to this beach once,
I was taught not too far East. Everyone takes car
services here, and we didn’t find the beach.
Age 17, Grade 12
Stuyvesant High School