the sticker

I’m so glad
I never got around
to putting your sticker –
your very popular, instantly
recognizable, well known sticker –
on any of my instruments or
other possessions. after the
falling out we had – entirely
due to your reprehensible actions,
I might add – looking at it would
make me sick. you said
you did what you did
to me and not other people
because I would forgive you
right away, and other people might
hold a grudge. boy, you were wrong
about that. I will hold this grudge
till the end of the world
and beyond, just to prove
you wrong. fuck you, and fuck
your stupid sticker.

that girl

she’s all right. I mean
not my cup of tea, and
I really don’t get
all the hype, but okay.
whatever. I’m
probably just
jealous. I just think
that one should have
to work a little bit harder
to get all the accolades.
it seems there is such
a thing as a free lunch.
if you’re cute enough
and can play your instrument
even remotely competently,
they will rave. duly
noted. the next time
I’m born I’ll try
harder to be hotter.

the glare

I can’t tell you
why I glared at you
that time in the midst
of the crowd. I
hope to take that secret
to my grave.

all I can say
is that your crime
was not at all
the one you thought it was,
and in fact was no crime
at all. and yet
it made me
truly furious.

chalk it up to the mystery
of the human heart,
file it under women,
inexplicable behavior
thereof, just don’t
ask me to explicate
my pitiful, pointless rage.

it’s all I have left.

catfight

let me at her. I’ll
scratch her eyes
out! I love all women,
except this one, who is clearly
a megabitch. she must be
perfect in every way
and therefore phony
as the day is long.

I bet
she’s eight feet tall
with feet that somehow
don’t look like skis.
I bet she naturally
has a double row
of eyelashes
like Liz Taylor. I bet she
rolls out of bed looking
adorably rumpled
and her farts smell like
fresh-baked cookies.

Continue reading catfight

the mood

I hate everything. whatever
you’re selling, I’ll have
none of it. I am a lizard
person deprived of warmth.
my hinged jaw could open
and swallow you whole.
if everyone could just stop
expecting me to talk to them,
I might survive this night
without the blood of well-meaning
idiots on my scaly, scaly hands.
if one more girl looking
down on her luck bums
a cigarette from me, I shan’t
be held responsible
for my actions.

Continue reading the mood

On This Day

two years ago today
I was embroiled in a non-affair
that was going nowhere
fast. we were so coded, hidden
in plain sight, that there are
no pictures of us together,
there are no tags
for me to hide or remove,
no way for me to protect
myself from this invasion
of memory: just
a picture of myself
on the stage that you lit –
where I was singing a song
to an audience of ten people,
hoping you would get the secret
message in the lyrics – but still,
against my will, I remember.
I remember that outfit
I wore, and the obscene
comment you made about it,
trying to throw me
off balance, and I remember how
I didn’t answer.

how is it
that something so ephemeral
can be so unwarrantedly,
unwantedly real? you were
crazy, and you made me crazy
with you, and I don’t thank Facebook
for reminding me
of what happened
on this day.