on sitting across from a stranger at davis libraryi wonder if anyone has ever sat
across from you and wrote a poem about you
even though they don't know you.
i wonder if anyone has ever done
this for me. i hope when you go home
you don't wash your hair. i like that it's messy
and long. if i were a ladybug i would like to sleep
there. i would tunnel just beneath the top layer
and shudder my wings to a close and have dreams of fields
of wheat. i hope you can see how this is a good thing.
and i hope you don't change your clothes. i hope you wear
a sweater everywhere you go. i like that the one you're wearing now
is brown and without a pattern. its not ambitious or pretentious. if i
were a flea, i'd perch on your shoulder for company until i got hungry.
i wouldn't bite you and wouldn't know why in my tiny insect mind.
i hope you never wear contacts, and i hope sometime you fall
asleep with your glasses on. i hope you never talk on the telephone
except once a week to your grandmother. i hope you never peel your stickers
off your laptop, no
on skimming the surfacedear ex-lovers,
dear ex-friends, dear little brother,
i have taken all the posters down and my room is a skeleton.
i wonder why you are sad and i am not.
i have taken time and care to grow into these walls
to plant memories here, first fuck
first sleepless night, first question of suicide,
i have collected bones-
here see them in my closet-
i have broken them all.
love was not strong enough to keep me here,
and love is not strong enough, after
yes i ami hope they get what they want and get married and i hope when he fucks her outside of the motel he's gone back far back into his head but his eyes are looking at her and they're bleeding red. i hope she cries and i hope she realizes that he's going to change and there won't be anymore. "you're pretty like stolen skin is pretty," or "sweetie please don't go to bed without me" it will just be her head hitting the back of the bed and their walls will be cream colored and his lips are betraying her for the blunt or the bottle or the bong
i hope they have three kids and i hope they're the most beautiful people anyone has ever seen and i hope their names are something like macy marina and matthew. i hope macy has his ugly mud eyes and i hope when boys look at them their feet get stuck and she rips them apart just like her mother. i hope marina braids her dishwater hair everyday and i hope every girl she loves loves her back because she's not selfish like her mother or a liar like her father
The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.
And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.