Oh, 98232.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

"There's no place like home. That's why I left."


the winter months bloom wooden blocks
clacking early evenings

our fingers spider over hot whiskey death
i don't wash my hair for days.


sounds of effort from the kitchen remind me of
hedonism, the greeks and royalty: pale skin

my layers of bruised fat, the things i don't like
about myself on television, projections abetting

sloth. me, i say, i'm writing. survey bookshelves
for words. it is more cruel to talk about the weather.


i did that job for a day, i silk my fur like
the cat's. i mop, he sweeps: more productive

every female child draws herself a bride, none of us
calculated the word wife, like our mothers. smile

lines cut deep in my face, it's her face i touch, he
touches. i know words like bound, but i cannot

sketch1 animal hat

reconcile ones like homemaker. house item. nor
academic. the sun set at four pm, his cigarette breath

cold exhale. opportunities for