ode to old dog
i know you remember
as you close your cloud eyes
jumping on the green couch
settling between my legs
bearded chin at my knee
as i cried and told you about
the boy who doesn’t like me back
the failed math test
how nobody understood me except you.
all of my wrist watches are dead
but i wear them anyway.
yes, i’m being that girl, the one
with beautiful messes, the everything
not on purpose; babe with bedhead;
venus with sliced vice.
i remember circling gift stores,
a furious search for tchotchke
to knock around my heart forever,
to pump important nostalgia and gloom,
to remember the vacation out west when i
got my first period, blood on the shower floor,
dry heat and canyon dust stuck to my young young parts.
i am a queen
i don’t hate my thighs, i love them.
i don’t like cardigans, i hate them.
the smells of peanut butter & diesel & subway bread arouse me. maybe it’s something to do with pavlov?
in psych 101 i learned about pavlov and that lesson has stuck.
it has stuck and so have you. so has this incense burning, mating with the fibers of my favorite tank top, mixing with green weather and weekend.
little prayer poem
i think–i hope–
i might have
eagles part II
tap the top of a soda can. explore what calms you. if it’s jazz music,
listen to la vie en rose. cry about good friends. cry about good soup.
cry about dead bald eagles. cry, cry. read literotica. write literotica,
if you want. think! your ideal sexual scenario, all your own. notice
2pm. wonder who else noticed 2pm. eavesdrop. judge what you
eavesdrop but also don’t judge. touch your lips. let them chap.
this just means they’re part of an active lifestyle.
we can burn march now and find a mantra for april
something like strong thighs or notice purple things
i like that our throats are sore at the same time and i like
to think about purple you notice and the thighs that handle you
we can burn march now but don’t forget about the eagles;
13 eagles; the ones found dead in a row on the eastern shore.