I dreamt it was nightness

dived into the algid pool
  º   —grecian pillars encircling—

my blonde, fish-blooded sister
clamped         around my lovely businessman

an angler told me
the businessman loved me—


but sister revealed
an elephant in her belly
that would stay for two years,
that would keep him locked between her teeth

rupture my dreams

If we thought we could do better

Almost everyone does the best they can do at the time. I see this in my own life and when I watch my friends struggle and grow. Some people are so ignorant. They think people are lazy or make excuses. Sometimes that’s true. But believe me, if we thought we could do better—be better—we would. If we thought we could jump higher, we would, we would soar!

If I thought I was a treasure, I would polish myself till I gleamed, and come out of that bottle the most beautiful genie. If they thought they were worth it, my friends would put down their razors and make their beds and sleep for eight hours. If we knew in our hearts that we could achieve something wonderful, we would. But we are afraid. We don’t think it’s true.

Sometimes it’s a struggle to get out of bed, make food, do my homework. So little things don’t seem important. They seem ridiculous.

How can my teacher be angry that I was 2 minutes late? I’m proud I even got to class. 

Someone wants me to sit them at a larger booth.

I have to use the term “folks” instead of “guys” bc it’s more inclusive? Get fucked.

I still care, which is the worst. I care too much about the little things and not enough about the important things. I am a zombie. So please, be considerate and communicative with depressed and anxious people. “It’s not like we can’t handle criticism,” said a friend. “I’m not going to kill myself if you don’t like something I’ve done.”

But please understand that I have a lot going on my mind, often things I haven’t shared.

Stay–free writing exercise with music

I’m listening to the Violent Femmes and wondering how a supermoon can change a relationship. I’m thinking about how I’ve never been dancing–no one’s ever asked me to dance. And this is the time I should go and dance. I should go and not care that I’m alone.

I don’t know why I almost cried when my lover said he didn’t like dancing. My mother used to dance forever with me. In a living room with oak that melted like the barn my father burnt down, probably for the insurance money. It was the happiest memory I have of my youth.

I think my favorite lines are “just a come on from the whores on 7th avenue. I do declare I was so lonesome, I took some comfort there.”

How will I live on my own if I don’t work? How will I be a good human if I have no money or opportunities?

Two stink bugs on the window to the right of me–they’ve found each other.

This is poetry. This is tension, and I love this. Sex and drugs. What more could an angst-ridden teen want? It’s kind of scary, all the drugs and the neighbor who beats his wife. But it’s so beautiful. I ache when I hear these words.

I feel too much, don’t I? It bubbles up inside me and I must cut it out.

The Clitoris (by Nikky Finney)

is 9 cm deep
in the pelvis,
Most of it is scrunched & hidden
New studies show
the shy curl
to be longer
than the penis,
but like Africa,
the continent,
it is never drawn
to size.
Mapmakers, and the others, who draw
important things for a living,
do not want us to know this.
In some females,
the clitoris stretches,
8 in,
with 2 to 3.5
in, shaft free,
outside the body.
The longest clitoris of record
has been found in the blue whale.
In water
desire can rise,
honor sea levels,
ignore land-locked
In water,
desire  refuses retreat.



Let’s fucking paint with that beard,

let’s roll on the hardwood floor.

Cover ourselves with scratchy redness

before we grey and dye.


Maybe it is a dead thing, my heart–

or maybe my brain’s to blame, for

my heart is useless–

only keeps me alive

How Grows a Garden

One has not the strength

of a garden

or the breath that makes a man.