The man made machine is pulling her hair again,
biting her lip
for the poem she has been

years -

or so!

her origins are as furrowed
as a stray cats bristled tongue

the father
is fatherless

the sun; sexless

the ghost, like
a mirage in the desert
wedded to the lyre
you stroke viciously

just to hear it moan.

just to hear me groan.

I hate it sometimes
I am sleeping,
dreaming the dreams that I do.
jotting, getting up in the morning
to chicken scratch notes on the table
having to decipher my own mind

like a hieroglyphic.

like a gift from God.
Someone asked me once; if I believed in God
and I said:
which one?

Mr. Pettibone reads my poems out loud
in Creative Writing,
and I scan each face for its reaction.

I write.

It is who I am,
who I have become.

The clothes I wear
the drugs I take
the boys I have loved, and not loved
the girls I've envied,
the girls who've envied me.

It started
with a toddler
scribbling lines in an old
catholic diary with a crayon
trying to imitate her mothers
squiggly cursive-filled check book.

It will end?

I've dreamt myself onto balconies,
sucked the conversations from strangers
like a starved orphan,
bitten into forbidden fruit;
loathed love
yearned for hate


It's not just for the attention;
it's not just so you'll look a little longer, or
scratch the surface a little deeper

more like,
concealment -

it's easier for her to walk through the shadows
of others
then it is to meander through the looking glass.

Easier to be nothing
because nothing is at least something else;

the man made machine is wise -
she knows her wisdom well
like a fortune teller
she can crack the cookie and
interpret the writing

therein -

she must be good for something.

Her body is like a well lined tea leaf,
she has already fallen
and her lines;
(thin like air) will grow
until they consume the page
she's staring at

but for
the words


am I winning?

am I grinning?

The overrated cliche
of poetry,
self absorbed,
selfless -

it's eleven o'clock and I'm restless.

I think:
if action is an angel
than destiny is damnable.

Flammable like her human body
burning in the bed
down to rain-slick bones,
down to her soul -

where is her soul?
in her eyes?
in her breast?

the wet dream splashing across the verses,
palpable like a child
it scatters -
but it's beside the point and that's what matters.

It matters
like a scream
bloated on the air
traveling my way like a sinking ship.

The man made machine is running away with herself
again; she's on her way to Hollywood
where Talent will fold minks around it's shoulders,
dance with Errol Flynn at one in the morning,
walk home with Nelson Eddy like a school girl, and
drink the darkest red wine

she'll let it feaster against her insides;
a fine coating
of mirages and dreams.
A layer of words:

she is beautiful
she is ugly
she is talented.