new poem

Residential Doubles

we woke to shrill lashes
of parental static and stayed still
until I crept into your mother's
pharmaceutical pantry for a few
more handfuls. It was

summer when the walls were
too thin to not spy on eachother, when
her pleasure arrived in sharp cries
through the hall and into my room and
into my arsenal. They found us

passed out at the
Shiloh Recreation Center, and
according to mirrors, we were older,
still skating the broken diameter of
a non-city spent under
spells of syrup and ether, past
echoes of other nights, names
not remembered, plaza to plaza
before cutting through the Health Park
on the way to your house. By the time

I zeroed out in Osprey,
you'd already forgotten me, and
life became a series of
unanswered phone-calls, some of
which make some of me still
feel guilty for forgetting you
not entirely. For weeks,

I hid in garbage bins and crashed
through fences, into backyards where
stepdads scrambled for reefer,
shirtless and full of anger, outside,
where we would duck in through the back
and watch
sisters act like sisters
before settling on poppers,
and later, again, I became
your shoulder until it was
time to go, until she

tripped over an uncoiled hose
and hurt her skull and hated me
for the rest of her life.

Sara

Part One.

I am fifteen years old. More people than ever now know how old I am because my face is plastered on the sides of buildings and streetlights.

I have been gone for nine months, the time it takes for a baby to come out of someone’s vagina. Last year, when I was 14, I became pregnant. A baby was put inside of me by a boy I do no much care for. The baby never came out of me and it is probably in a dumpster somewhere with a bunch of others just like it.

Last night I met a man named Charly. He was black, or a nigger, as my dad would say. Charly asked why someone like me would be prowling through the city streets without company. He said I was beautiful, that I deserved better. Then he tried to rape me in an alley so I stabbed him in the throat with a letter-opener I took from my mother’s work-desk shortly before I left home. I have never murdered anyone before. I’m not even sure If I killed Charly, I just know there was a lot of blood spewing from his neck and down into the rainy gutter.

My name is Sara. I am attempting to document my life up to this moment. I was considering not telling you my name, but what difference does it really make? If I could know your name, I promise I would remember it for the rest of my life.

When I was six my father read me many stories. I do not remember any of the stories specifically, just his voice and how it made me feel safe. When I am without sleep, without a place to lie down unless it is in some sleezoids bed after we fuck dissapointingly, I think of my father’s voice, of the stories I cannot remember, then I fall asleep, at least usually.

The other night, I stayed at this ratty house full of other kids like me, and there I met a girl two years older named Kelley. We had what some would call chemistry. Kelley had a tattoo of Orion’s belt above her pussy.

I am not scared of anything, really. Just boredom. When I used to get bored at my old house, I would drink lots of my parent’s liquor and go outside and watch the stars. Sometimes I would see Orion's Belt. Kelley has a tattoo of that. She rules.

classic albums pt. 3

new poem

The Elderly

The Elderly are now
taking Cocaine Cues
from young men
with lip-piercings,

tattoos?

We were
originally trained find the
infamous Heartworms Of Spirit
and Body,

and there is a difference
between the use of
abstractions in poetry and

the use of poems
as psychoactives,

Uncle Lester's ass
still hurts, too taxed to buy
laxatives. I remember, your
number ended with three sixes,

or

were they twos? My first sentence
had something to do with the

sickly, or
splinters covering The Elderly,

still circling
outlines of
old enemies, lost
in the city, and
bored by poetry,

we, the disposessed,
deserve some hot sex,

some hard candy...?

new poem

Cinema Skullz

the buck stops here so
lick my feet
and shoot this dirty animal,
this

is

filial sentiment,
bondage, or
something American,

some shadows,

and you shot a gallon
of gunk on
your mother's ghoulish tits
and your mother
is just

like you,
a real cuckoo
with credit problems
and bad skin.

back to
your final cameo,
and the softness of skulls
behind other skulls, other screens

darker, the
last scene equals many dead things,

your naked process,
your severed heel

my last lunch before war

three favorite films pt. 3