idol

I read a book
about Sylvia Plath
and despair. it seems
so much easier
to write poems that
scorch the earth
when you’re not planning
on being around when
those cruise missiles
touch down.

well, I do not plan
on dying, ever,
so where does that leave
my stabs at poetry?

blinded,
broken, Oedipus at Thebes
could relate.

maybe I’ll just wait
until everyone I know is dead
before I document
what I really think of them.

hate the art, like the artist

it’s not you, it’s me. I really
can’t stand your art. I’m sorry
because you seem fine
enough, when you talk
you turn into a real person;
still almost insufferably cute
and cutesy, but you appear
to be a human being
with thoughts and feelings.

when you sing you become
a China doll, an automaton
who never reaches
below the surface. you sing like
you’ve never screamed,
you’ve never ugly cried,
you’ve never been eaten your weight
in Doritos.

I’m just saying
your art would be so much better
if you were willing to let yourself
be real.

the size of it

telling your companion
to leave space for me
on the bench was
(in theory) a nice gesture.
telling her to be sure
to leave extra room
because I am big
was unnecessary,
and furthermore
quite rude, dude.

a couple of things
to consider: first,
had you not mentioned
my sex, there would have been
no need to mention
my size. I am not bigger
than your average man.

secondly, since you said it
in front of my boyfriend,
you must have known
this would get back to me
by the end of the night.
so your later attempt to kiss
my ass – the very one
the size of which you seemingly
felt compelled to mock –
was an ill-fated and
ill-conceived maneuver.
I innocently accepted
your flattery at the time,
but upon learning
of your treachery, am
now twice as mad.

thirdly, if you think
that I am not already
very much aware
of how much space I
occupy, you’ve got
another think coming.
I ride the subway
and also exist as a
woman on this planet.
it was unkind and unnecessary
to remind me
that I should be smaller
to be acceptable
to you and yours.

for all your preaching
about social justice, perhaps
you need to practice
a little more.

legless

as far as I know, you
have never read my music page
in the newsletter for which
I write, let alone
offered me feedback.
(you did happen to be
instrumental
in my obtaining
this unpaid labor of love,
but still.)

my album has been out
for over six weeks, but
you have yet to have
a listen, even though
it’s free to stream.
(you being notoriously
unwilling to spend one red cent
unless it’s to your
immediate advantage.
or shall we say, frugal
and good at living within
your limited means?)

either way,
when you claim
that I am being unfair
and cruelly callous
by unfollowing your blog,
I say, sir, that you simply
haven’t a single leg
to stand on.

speechwritten II

maybe I’m wrong
for being a little bit annoyed
that in your touching tribute
in which you read my words
as if you had written them
you preferred to keep the author
anonymous.

maybe you wanted
to make me mad
because my words taste better
well-seasoned with
fiery rage.

Continue reading speechwritten II

behind the curtain

can’t you ever just
for once fucking
come out and say
what you mean and
mean what you say?

do you even have a heart
under all those cries
of wolf, wolf, looking
for your Little Red
Riding Hood? or does a
clockwork ticker beat
itself to death inside
your Tik-Tok chest?
fee, fie, foe, fun. I
smell the blood
of a charlatan.

Continue reading behind the curtain