I am a lonely robot
slowly dying, alone
in the vast emptiness
of space. I bleat out my
distress signal but
it’s gradually, imperceptibly
growing weaker, as passing
rockets and satellites
continue to ignore it
and me, I continue to
die by degrees. and yet
I can’t stop saying it, to
myself and to
the unfeeling stars:
mayday mayday mayday
mayday mayday mayday

cherry bomb girl

some lady outside Sidewalk
just called me the cherry bomb girl,
and I’m not sure what that means
other than an obvious reference
to the bomber jacket I am wearing
covered with red cherries and green leaves,
white flowers with brown stems.
I presume a cherry bomb girl
is half pinup girl, half rockabilly.
she smokes cigarettes and wears Doc
Martens, and I’m halfway
there but to be honest
I don’t quite have the eye makeup,
let alone the spoons
to fully pull her off

Continue reading cherry bomb girl

the battle

almost every day I fight this
pitched battle
inside my head. one part
of me says I’m worthless
I’m dying
fuck my life
kill me now
why bother to get out of bed
no one will ever love me anyway
what is there to live for

and another part yells at the first part
for being lazy and useless and privileged
and a garbage human
and still another part says hey, what if
we pretended to act like a person
who doesn’t hate herself today?
what would this mythical creature do?

and so the eternal war
between my selves goes on,
and sometimes one part says
he didn’t write back, he must hate you,
what’d you do this time, you idiot
and most of the other parts tend
to want to believe whatever narrative
makes me feel the worst
about myself at any given time
and so you see, I’m hardly ever really fighting
with you. sometimes you get caught
in the crossfire between my selves,
that’s all.


I’m sorry that I’m the way
I am. I tend to get a feeling
of free-floating anxiety, like
something is horribly
wrong, but I don’t know what,
so then I try to find the ways
that I fucked up, the things I did
wrong, the reasons and the proof
that someone hates me.

I think part of it
is that I assume
that everyone will hate me
eventually, that I’m an awful
person who drives everyone away
so it’s just a matter of time
until it happens with you. I’m
probably conditioned by
having parents who lied
and said everything was fine
when it clearly wasn’t
and then got divorced.

I take all the little things
that by themselves are meaningless
and may well have nothing to do
with me, but in my mind
they add up to being
a big bad picture,
like detectives in a movie
when they’re trying to catch
a serial killer, like the Zodiac
or whatever, and then I assume
and make an ass out of u and me,
but mostly me. so anyway I’m sorry,
and it will probably happen

my grocery lists

how many trees
have died for my
grocery lists?
thrown in the trash
with most of the page
left blank. well, rip me up
and put me in there too
because I’ve died for you
a hundred times and it’s all
meaningless, in a hundred years
no one will care, my using dead
tree bodies to write my ephemera
is just one of the eight million
reasons I’m going to hell, and when
I get there I’ll be confronted by the
sad-eyed garbage men
who will wordlessly show me
the cuts on their hands
from my orphaned and deadly
cat food can lids, and all the little
children in Africa who died
as a direct result of my wasting
water by running it in the bathroom
to give me privacy or sometimes
if I can’t pee right away, anyway
the point is none of them will
actually be in hell because they
are innocent and I’m just
the absolute worst – and even
saying that is narcissistic and
pathetic, a self-pitying
worthless loser trying to
draw attention to herself talk
and you see now how
this goes, a perpetual
downward spiral
forever like Fibonacci or some shit
I probably saw on a FB meme
because I’m
dumb like that –
they will just visit me in hell
and give me accusing stares
that say I’m not mad, I’m just
and I’ll probably
learn even more ways
I’m fucking up right now
without even meaning to
or knowing it so
as much as I hate being alive
half the time for no good reason,
I don’t really look forward
to dying, either. so please
call off that mob hit I ordered
on myself, because
I’m going to have to do something
far worse than death.

I think I’m going to have
to live.


you read my mind – again.
you wrote exactly what I was thinking
as I watched our mutual friend
kicking ass on stage.
she’s taller, skinnier, prettier, younger,
stronger, healthier, more energetic;
she has her entire life ahead of her,
can play guitar pretty well,
wrote most of her own songs,
and totally rocks the bangs.

at first I could only see how
she was far, far better than I;
how surely anyone looking at her
would forget all about the inferior,
flawed 1.0 version that is me;
how surely you would never settle
for such a pathetic substitute,
if you could strut around
with her on your arm.
but as she played I realized
that she is herself,
shining brightly in all her glory,
and I am
whatever strange and desperate
thing I am, but that to compare us
is to compare the sun to the moon,
the forest to the waterfall,
the endlessly susurrating sea
to the merrily babbling brook.

you got one thing wrong, though.
I have something far better
than a use for you.
I do have a need for you,
a pivotal role, in fact,
and it’s one that I wish you could accept.
it’s not as a chauffeur,
it’s not as comic relief,
it’s not as a shoulder to cry on,
but as a partner to stand by me, and
as a boyfriend to go on long walks with, and watch TV with, as a friend to confide in and listen to you –
reflecting yourself back to you
only better, because I see the inner and outer cornucopia of beauty in you that you are so sadly blind to –
as a lover to kiss and to hold me, and
as a reason to get up in the afternoon, and
as a slow-blooming flower by which
to measure my days.

you’re no substitute for anyone for me;
there’s no one else who has my heart.
you’re not my second choice.
If only you could say the same for me.