Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Someone told me I should write a poem about my vagina

A small village has colonized my vagina
There is an elementary school
And a mayor
Every summer the mayor organizes an all-village picnic
But I'm never invited
So I sit in my little room in the attic
Regulating temperature
Afraid that masturbation
Will destroy the school and the park
I think about organizing an insurrection
Inside my vagina
About rallying anti-mayor factions
Kidnapping the children
And holding them hostage at the elementary school
Until we hang the mayor
For war crimes or something
Then maybe explode myself
And get famous in all the newspapers

Monday, December 04, 2006

I wake up and everybody's dead

I am in an office. I am on the floor looking at the acoustic-tile ceiling. Somewhere, an alarm clock beeps. I sit up.

There are many desks in the building and at every desk is a dead body.

I try to remember the last thing I did.

I went grocery shopping, I think. I needed to buy milk and ice cream and an apple, I know I needed an apple.

I touch one of the dead bodies. It moves strangely, rollingly, and it makes me step away and look at a different dead body, but all of the dead bodies look very similar, with similar colors and similar clothing made to similar cuts.

I say, "It's not right to wake up surrounded by dead bodies."

I watch the dead bodies like I expect them to say something but they don't say anything and after a while I walk to the elevator. I take the elevator down to the lobby, forty floors below. Music is playing in the elevator, light music with a soothing beat and with no words, but the feeling like there should be words, and really the music is terrible and stupid and I hate it but I can't explain why I hate it so I spend the trip down to the lobby arguing for and against this music, debating the merits of lyrics versus no lyrics and passive versus active listening or something, and all the arguments seem true and perfect just until they are deflected by newer arguments that also seem true and perfect.

I walk through the lobby and outside. Cars drive somewhere with people in them and the people don't say anything or wave.

A boy walks along the sidewalk and stops in front of me. He says, "Can I borrow two dollars? I need to buy some milk."

I tell the boy about the dead people in the office building.

He says, "You should come to the grocery store with me and we can share the milk together, and we can be a team and steal it if we don't have any money. We need milk to survive."

"Okay," I answer.

The grocery store is empty and there is no milk so we steal sodas from the stockroom and hide behind a stack of pallets. The pallets are old and dirty and we construct a fort from them. We use cardboard boxes and old milk boxes and aprons we find hanging in the employee lounge.

I sit cross-legged next to the boy, inside the fort and we drink our sodas and lay back and stare at the roof of our fort and the aprons, which are blue, but not like the sky, and we throw our empty soda bottles as far as we can and listen to them clatter around on the concrete floors, and the boy smiles at me and I smile back at him and we forget about the dead bodies in the office building and take a nap in the fort. Later, I wake up. The boy is still sleeping. I stare at the blue-apron roof for a while, then roll onto my stomach and go back to sleep.

Saturday, December 02, 2006

I think about teleportation

I am hungry I am tired my fridge is empty
So I teleport to Wal-Mart and rob Wal-Mart
I steal the Wal-Mart tractor-trailer and sell it in Tennessee
I buy a new cell-phone and destroy the cell-phone
Then buy another cell-phone and destroy the cell-phone
I teleport to Oregon and hijack a Greyhound bus
Then drive the bus to my mother's house
And crash the bus into my mother's house and destroy the bus
I pull my mother from the house I tell her "I destroy everything"
There is car on the road I destroy the car
I am happy today I think
I will quietly destroy my apartment
I will imagine my apartment is 'global terrorism'
And quietly destroy it
I am afraid I will destroy everything
Because everything is afraid of me
Or everything is afraid of everything
Or I don't know so I have to stop now

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

I scream for Christopher Walken

I steal the pillow I throw the pillow at the movie screen
And scream for Christopher Walken
To take me grocery shopping or horseback riding
Into the movie theater where together we shackle a classroom of boys
To little red seats and slowly smother their noses
Christopher Walken is my darling boy
With little blue or brown eyes
I want to keep on my knickknack shelf
Instead I shoplift a soda from the AM/PM
And run screaming down the block
The clerk is a boy with Christopher Walken's eyes
He stabs me for my soda
Because my soda is more meaningful
Than the ten thousand vectors surrounding me

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

This poem is about early childhood education

My boyfriend stole my cell-phone
And I stole his blanket and set it on fire
At the park at the beach
I told him I loved Christopher Walken
Because Christopher Walken has eyes
My boyfriend said "I have eyes"
And I gave him a bowl of breakfast cereal
I swung on the elementary school swing set
And you watched from your helicopter
With your nail clippers
And the local TV news
Reported from the monsoon coast
I told the girls to swim in the morning
Before the day organizes

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

I have a Honda Civic hatchback so I can turn sharply

I want new rims for my hatchback
Shiny rims to shine shinily as I drive
And you can buff them each weekend
Before we speed on the freeway
To the shadowy window country
Where we will terrorize ex-boyfriends
With our cell-phone ring-tones
I think I should turn sharply though
And smash you against the door
And open the door
And watch you tumble into the road
Then yell "die filthy terrorist"
As I right my vehicle
And drive carefully home

Monday, November 13, 2006

Ninjas belong in the world at large

I am invisible like a ninja I am transparent
Happy ninjas belong in the world at large
They have a role and base their desires on their role
I am bored I steal a cell-phone for my boyfriend
And evade pursuit in my hatchback
Then text my boyfriend from the stolen phone
I say "I am bored I have no role"
We drive to the plains and slaughter cattle
We go to an 'independent movie'
At daycare I tell the girls to learn to read
Because only idiots can't read
And their mothers make me cry
I burn a barn in Iowa and the cows panic
I dodge the stampede of panicking cows
They trample the tall corn trees
This corn will never be food but these cows will
I thank the Dairy Farmers of America
And shave a small patch of grass
From my front lawn

Sunday, November 12, 2006

It is a duckling

It is a duckling. Neck broken, next to the lake, and my brother, his little friend, their muddy fingers flexing, or twisting in t-shirts, leaving little mucky spirals around the hems. I make them dig a hole. "Do you know what you've done, little mucky murderers? That duck was alive and now its just loose-necked, all dirty and wasted and its little mother and little brothers are quacking over there walking in circles going 'where’s my little brother' 'where's my little mucky son' but the little mucky son's gonna be in a hole cause you little murderers couldn't leave that damned thing alone." "I didn't do it," my brother says drilling at the muck with his toes. "I'm not a murderer." "You're a murderer and worse you’re a brutal duckling murderer with no conscience. You might as well be a serial killer, do you know what a serial killer is? I didn't think so. Not the first animal you've murdered, is it? Do you kill kittens? Little helpless fish? I should call the police. Should help them get your little serial killer mind off the streets, keep us safe from your brutal violence, probably genetic, probably not my brother, dirty little murderer, adopted from some murderer probably, abandoned, most likely, abandoned and needing a home and now a murderer. I'll call the police when we get home, I'll call the police and they'll take you away and have the psychologists work on you until you're normal. Brainwash you. It's the only way." "No! Don't call the police. I'm not a murderer." I walk home. He's following saying, "don't call the police" but I just ignore him and toss little pebbles in the blackberry bushes. His little friend went somewhere, I don't know, maybe in the lake or over the fence or home to his mom and the duckling's in a little wet hole but really I just want to get a snack, a bowl of cereal, watch some cartoons or whatever, but he's still following close, worrying about the police, little idiot, all "I didn't do it, I'm not a killer," little idiot. I unlock the door with my key and we walk into the living room. I make a show of dialing the phone, of waiting patiently of dialing and talking, and he hugs himself and he says, "don't!" "Oh, shut up already you little murderer and turn the tv on."

I will write an obsessive story today

I will write an obsessive story today about daycares and girls but actually about grocery store parking lots where I'm afraid I'll be struck by luxury sedans. Because old drivers are distracted. They know exactly where to go but look confused and swivel their heads side to side and don't see me in their luxury sedans with power windows.

I follow on old lady home in my little Honda hatchback, drive past her house, then park my little Honda hatchback down the street and walk slowly along the sidewalk to the driveway of the old lady. I carefully observe this old lady removing groceries from her trunk.

The grocery bags are made from paper and are lost and sad and alone in their new surroundings. The old lady's hair is gray and soft looking and her hands soothe the paper bags' sadness. The paper bags and the old lady are happy together. Because each has a purpose and is fulfilling that purpose.

I quietly climb a nearby tree.

I am invisible like a ninja. I am transparent.

When the old lady looks at me, when the paper bag looks at me, they see only the tree-bark and brown leaves. I shimmy out on a thick branch.

The old lady has her groceries on the cold gravel. Her trunk is closed and her luxury sedan is useless. The groceries are cold and want inside the old lady's house. The groceries wait patiently on the cold gravel.

I scream, I leap from the tree, I land in the gravel, I say "Pay attention. Can I help bring your groceries inside? They are cold but patient and you are old and confused."

Then I stab the old lady because she scares me.

She might kidnap the girls from my daycare, take them to AM/PM, buy them hotdogs, wait until they become useless consumers, then release them into the dirty abandoned forests.

I would get old and buy a luxury sedan.

These kidnapped girls would follow me and stab me.

And my groceries would be cold and alone too.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Ben Stein dissapoints us all

I have a tiny apartment with a tiny window
Next to the AM/PM
I am of course powerful
As I watch her kick her head in
The asphalt is new and black
Cars hiss as they roll smoothly over it
And on election night Ben Stein
Disappoints us all
Girls are not tax write-offs
But they should be
So Justin Timberlake can tour Iceland
As American Envoy
And bring pop-music-peace worldwide
I lean my head against my television
Static tickles my hair follicles
It is raining calmly
As my forced-air-heating clicks on
There should be an all-girl battle-royale
With baseball bats and steel rocks
But no helmets no pads no sound
I would smash every bone quietly
And cripple my neighbors
So I could sleep safely alone

Thursday, September 14, 2006


Metrics by
Dolls pick face rack
Grapple rotting tit
his bared tires clod

Sister to
Dirge go
Finger heels electric doll
wonder theory prickle route crone

Wednesday, September 13, 2006