No one remembers the girl who made improbable
speeches. She’s like those locust shells
she used to find on trees in Missouri. A relic
to rival the Sex Pistols.
In August, the scars hurt a bit more. School kids.
The cycle relentless. I meant to achieve something
definitive. Wall hangings. An entire bookshelf of my canon.
I’m probably kidding.
What is the ego for anyway? To spurn us?
Do we have it
I think I am more fish now
than mammal. Comfortable in cold, sunken places.
Sometimes just being alive makes me feel like a soldier.
My devotion alternates between simple and searing.
How often can I go on
If I were straightforward, I’d have a slogan.
Literal and plain as farmland.
Catchy and charming as pop songs.
It’s just love, isn’t it?
Common as glass
bottles. So why the fissure? Why the luminous sheen?