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Five Poems photo

Random Rules

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 
but upstate 
I’m too formal 
even when I ash lavender 
cigarettes into a venus ashtray. 
I left my purple tie-dye shirt
in California.
Mountains sprawl behind 
the strip mall health foods store.
I balance my chakras 
with pomegranate
& 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. 
These days 
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.



For Spiral

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.


Abortion Bitch

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
next door.
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