Beyoncé Knowles (Wears Nike Kneepads)
Are you Beyoncé? My daughter says.
I am holding a pair of Nike kneepads in my hand.
No, I say.
I am not Beyoncé, I say.
My daughter doesn’t say anything else.
My daughter makes a certain face, raises her hand open palm in front
This means ‘exactly.’
My daughter means, ‘exactly, you are not Beyoncé.’
I wait until my daughter has left the room to put on the Nike kneepads
I stand on a chair in the middle of my room
I spin while my hands are up
I clap clap clap like I don’t care
I dance down the hallway with a pretend cup in my hand
I hold that coke like alcohol
I wave my hands from side to side,
I am careful not to drop the alcohol
I dance in front of my bathroom mirror
I move my legs from side to side,
I smack it in the air
I clap clap clap like I don’t care
I forget for a minute I am not Beyoncé
(Inside I think maybe we are all Beyoncé)
I think, my daughter is mad cause I’m so fresh
I think, I’m fresher than you, and by ‘you’ I mean my daughter, but
also I mean everyone else I have ever met
afterward I put the Nike kneepads in a drawer in my closet so my
daughter will not find them
I don’t ever again want to be told I am not Beyoncé.
I was heart broken and I couldn’t shit.
It was one, two o’clock in the morning.
I could feel the shit, hard and pellet-like, up in there, up inside of my rectum,
But it wouldn’t come out.
(I had been sitting there a long time.)
I was staring at a picture of Miley Cyrus’s tits in Paper magazine.
I wrapped my middle finger in a wipe and shoved it up my ass,
Felt around, located the hard balls of shit and pulled some out.
I wrapped my finger in a fresh wipe and pulled again.
I could feel my butthole ease up,
And more shit ready to come out, on its own, without me pulling.
I was still heart broken but at least now I could shit.
Miley Cyrus had someone’s name tattooed under her left tit.
I couldn’t make it out.
It looked like it started with a ‘J.’
Jesse or Justin or Jamey.
I have a tattoo of a buffalo on my right rib.
The buffalo might as well be my husband’s name.
I didn’t know if Miley Cyrus had ever been constipated.
I pictured her having a bleached asshole.
I pictured her asshole being nice and tight and pink.
Everyone keeps telling me I am a ‘strong vibrant woman’/please stop telling me I’m a strong woman please
Tanja texted me that today:
“You’re a strong vibrant woman,” she said.
I didn’t reply.
I was on my bathroom floor sobbing into a hand towel as usual.
Before She Killed Herself Letterman’s Stalker Stalked an Astronaut Also
But the astronaut wasn’t famous, or wasn’t on TV, or I had never
heard of him, or whatever.
What I mean is, I don’t know how Letterman’s stalker became
convinced the astronaut was communicating with her
In the absence of TV or Ask.Fm or the Internet or whatever.
Tanja says, “You have a lot of pop culture references in these poems.”
Tanja says, “I started to get annoyed with all the pop culture references while I was reading your poems.”
“But I guess that’s the point,” Tanja says.
“Mmmhmm,” I say.
Tanja likes Hanson and Matchbox Twenty.
Tanja has a Nicki Minaj brand shirt she got at K’Mart before our last tour.
I can’t remember the last time I felt drunk.
Last night I didn’t smoke a cigarette even though I was alone.
I don’t ever know what the point is.
Miley Cyrus II
(I told myself there had to be a reasonable explanation for why I kept
I just kept hurting him
& hurting him & I hurt too because of hurting him.
I stared at Miley Cyrus.
The pull quote beneath her bared breasts said she didn’t judge
It felt good knowing Miley didn’t judge me for hurting him.