Tuesday, October 27, 2009

I Don't Like to Call It a Girl Problem

When she unscrews her scalp
I’m going to flick a paperclip into her brains
and make her love go everywhere.

She’s talking about a boy taller than a bookshelf.
How she wound her arms around his legs.
Her hair slithers away as I reach out to touch it.

I think I’m building myself to last.
But we’ll see.
I got cranky and stood on the fire escape.
My brother sounded worried, but I said,
“Don’t worry,
getting sick will be good for me in the long run.”

I’m mad at you because I made a fool of myself
and I would never let you make a fool of yourself.

Bad Boy

Last night I smashed a pumpkin in the street.
It burst into chunks on the cement.
To be honest, I pulverized it.
The sound it made when it hit the ground was the most satisfying thing.
The empty thunk.

Then all morning I waited around expecting guilt.
Breakfast time came and went.
Mom called reminding me to keep clean, use soap.
Yeah mom I know.
But remember when the bad boys from around the neighborhood
came and destroyed our pumpkins in the night?
How you knelt in your night-gown, sweeping
seeds into a dust pan?
I cried and I thought those boys must be
the most terrible boys on Earth.

They were terrible,
weren’t they Mom?


The man has a photographic penis.
I mean a tiny photographer lives in his penis.

It made me think about how dark it is inside all of us.

Big black chambers.

“That’s why I like it here,”
squeaks the photographer.

He snaps another shot of the nest.