Our neighbor tore down
identical houses. I scrubbed
the bottom of the pool with
gelatin and ginger ale. I vomited
up a prophecy in a dive bar,
inhaling hot dogs. I quit
smoking for the 112th time,
lost my liquor license
to the tambourine player who
found ambition in a tropical fish
tank I broke when I wasn’t
high. Waving a hand
at an orange tree, I ate
slugs in your backyard.
Divorced myself from
8-balls and biblical names.
I was told I was too young
by a man who wouldn’t
let me see his eyes. People
have lives. What can I do about it.
The Sprawl (Visited)
Every city in America looks the same.
We are the mountains hiding townies.
I’m not a townie
My mountains are malls.
I’m hippie-dippie uptown
I’m too formal
even when I ash lavender
cigarettes into a venus ashtray.
I left my purple tie-dye shirt
Mountains sprawl behind
the strip mall health foods store.
I balance my chakras
& lemongrass & retox
with an olive roll
from Bread Alone.
I’m alone on the train
back to Penn Station
I’m no Holden Caulfield.
I don’t lose things.
I protested my life
watching arthouse films
from a deconstructed twin bunk bed.
apathy has no purpose.
It’s misguiding me.
I can’t bear knowing
I won’t outgrow my spine.
We don’t know why
we run away until that fragment
of our lives is just an image of our
white Crocs submerged in stormwater.
We are in the shop. The perfect functional beverage should have zero sugar
or sugar alternatives. I am a sweetener stuck in perpetual genesis. I don’t have
ideas. Just words. Cherry blossom La Croix tastes like a cherry cordial.
Chocolates are for breakfast, but I don’t eat breakfast out of contempt. Is noise
dad rock? At least that’s what Thurston asks me. I’d rather play guitar than write.
I want to paint layers and layers of noise celestial sound. Whatever happened
to Weldon Kees? I’m a Post Beat It girl. I drive Weldon’s Plymouth Savoy into
a lighthouse. I either create or curate chaos. I’m a speed walker fast talker soul stalker
The “I’s” I employ. The “I’s” I destroy, dissect, control. I’m laboring
under a misconception that everything is cringe. What isn’t cringe. I’ll speak in
hieroglyphics. I’ll be prolific after I get the decrepit cat to play piano. We are in
the shop is our mantra. It’s okay to be perfectly disgraceful. I’m perfect. Are you
perfect. Walking in New York is like scrolling the internet. Woody’s right about decay.
I’m building a city
on my iPhone. Will you
throw the soup on Warhol?
My hands are tied by Lolita
hair ribbons. I’m moving into
a library. I’ll sleep underneath
the signed first edition of Catcher in the Rye
and steal stale popcorn from the cinema
ᵢₛ ₜₕᵢₛ ₐᵥₐₙₜ₋gₐᵣdₑ?
Is this REI?
No, this is not REI.
“Did you just say this is REI”
We are in the shop. Kånken
no longer serves teenage art hoes.
Is this Twee
ᵢₛ ₜₕᵢₛ ₐᵥₐₙₜ₋gₐᵣdₑ?
Is this improvisation
Is this jazz
Is this a revelation?
Is this a moving part
Am I a moving part?
Are we moving parts
of a tandem bike rolling
into the Central Park pond.
Why did people stop
being so beautiful?
Quit using the word
cinematic to describe
life. The Greeks didn’t
have moving images. They spun pots.
Am I a moving image? I am three
years younger than Dorothy Parker.
Having a Twisted Tea With You
is sweeter than free focalin a stranger gives me
partly because we walked ten blocks and four
flights with the 12 pack we’re touching
elbows on a velvet green couch while my
roommate’s door stays half open
partly because you have pictures of your
room on your phone to show me
in my room loitering and i don’t know
what color your eyes are until you bite
my lip on my sailboat sheets they’re fucking
partly because you take off the tomato slice in your burger
partly because you tell me you don’t like the taste of beer
partly because you still live at home and your mom won’t
let you have the same clothing rack as me because she wants
you to have a desk but you’re illiterate