There you go killing my lines again and
I looked up, pretentiously looking for a god, who (should) personifies
Aimee Mann, or

Tori Amos,
just like when
I tried to write a poem on the subject of sexual abuse
and rape,
       the details leave me cold and absent while I really (should) sink
the knife on someone else's skin
instead of mine.

And there you go lashing a domesticated queen.
Bare feet entrance of a lover who had lost interest in courtship,
      whispers, and carousel.
It's oh-so-quiet, Bjork would say.

As wide and whole it could be, my head
spans 25 years of no Biblical climate.
To think that I could've been somewhere else typing on
my own laptop, with super high heels and mascara
and still
have some glory and enough money
from poetry.

Or maybe I'll spend all night in the bar, waiting
      for dead poets with their stupid hats and sometimes rimmed glasses.
We will salute each other and diction will fail me.
I wish Joni Mitchell was my mother.
      She'd tell me earlier to just drink the holy wine and be on my feet.


And here I go collecting dimes for cigarettes.
We live in a third world country, dear.
Where cigarettes are cheaper than hamburgers,
and we know we're hungry.


Memories are fragile.
I find I treat them bad.