messages to ME!

 STOP drafting. STOP drafting! a piece is worth seeing because

time is dedicated towards its completion. DON'T wait for the

perfect piece to come before you show it. DON'T check the 

comments every fifteen minutes. DON'T let it matter whether

 your favorite poem gets read by 1 or 20. STOP waiting for

people to talk to you. STOP letting friendships fall by self

sabotage. STOP spending your day inside. STOP taking 

fifteen takes of the same song because your voice cracked

in the third verse. DON'T draft. DON'T forget that writing

is the centerpoint of the universe. STOP drafting. STOP

hiding poems you think aren't worth reading. STOP 

pretending that anything you write isn't worth reading DON'T

stop writing, ever. DON'T let your brain get tired. DON'T 

fall asleep to the sound of someone else's thoughts. STOP

caring. STOP giving a fuck. DON'T let one day pass without

writing. STOP drafting. STOP drafting. STOP being afraid of

feedback. STOP being afraid to give feedback. STOP circling

the drain. STOP bringing more cups to your room. STOP

drafting. STOP drafting! DON'T draft! STOP being afraid to publish.

grocery lists

i need a too short skirt and a spaghetti strap tank top. and a crocheted scarf and tights with rips in the knees. i need fingerless gloves and canned green beans, and i need leg warmers and doc martens that don’t give me blisters. i need to pay the gas bill, i need to check the mail, i need to cook something for a potluck but all we have are three fingerling potatoes and angel hair pasta. i need to write music! i need to make art! i need to clean under my bed! i need to sing at a louder volume! i need to shower! i need to calm down. i need to buy soy sauce.

 i wouldn't consider myself a prolific writer i just have

so many thoughts in my head that i need an outlet for.

my wrist doesnt move fast enough for me to write

everything down, as much as i try. i fill notebooks faster

than i go through vapes. i listen to music while i write

so i can write at the rhythm of a rhythmless song, but

sometimes the words get in the way. life is a barbecue

tattooed on someones arm, im sure it has a meaning to

him but i'm just jealous he has a tattoo and i dont.

not by big thief but by me

not cars, not driving, not my phone, not thriving, not the house, not the food, not me being rude, not sneakers, not shoes, not jazz, not the blues, not pencils, not pens, not the rooster crooning at the hens, not the headlights, not doors, not the room with no floors, not peace, not home, not liking being alone, not my nails, not the blood, not knives, not the flood, not the wheels, not my chewing, not creating, not glueing, not the dots, not the lines, not me being totally fine,  not the exits, not grass, not some man slapping my ass, not the tears, not the tears, not the monsters, not our fears, not the gun, not the knife, not home, not life, not staying, not here, not smoking, not deer, not hydrating, not hair, not writing this in my underwear, not exploding, not god, not replacing my vapes old pod, not a buffer, not alarms, not the bug bites trailing up my arms, not my shoes, not laundry, not books, not fondling, not jeans, not dirt, not my fingernails which are constantly short.

trees and headphones

they’re cutting down branches directly outside my window (it is 6:30 am). i would have snoozed my alarm if i was able to get back to sleep, instead i lie with my eyes closed drifting to the lullaby of the chainsaw. i’ve broken six pairs of headphones in the past three years but i think these ones might stick. even though they’re my grandmas 2012 bose, even though they’re pink from the dye of my hair, even though they still try to connect to my grandmas ipad, they can drown out chainsaws.

what happens in my pockets

a lot. my hands need something to do when they’re hiding. ripped up paper, dissected cigarette butts, chewed on pen caps. my hands fidget with a mint chocolate chip flavored condom (still in it’s wrapper, of course) or lollipop sticks or nicotine gum. or pins whose backs make the tips of my fingers bleed. i keep my gloves there, but i still lose them. i try to keep a lighter there but i never have it when i need it. a lot of chipped nail polish and coins i like to jingle to the beat of my music (i always think people can’t hear it but they always can.) my vape, dead or alive, a pencil, dead or alive. in my back pockets i keep a notebook and my phone (what a juxtaposition) and in my front pockets i keep nothing but lint because that’s all they can hold.

A series of Twitter suspensions

    I first joined Twitter at age 12. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to, the terms and conditions require users to be 13+, but I always knew how to lie. My first account was for lurking, for watching Katy Perry make snide remarks about Taylor Swift, for checking what the election results would be and fearmongering to anyone who’d listen. I began posting when Tucker Carlson tweeted something so immensely stupid that I (now 13 years old) needed to school him with my cliche liberalism, using slogans like “science is real” and “build bridges, not walls.”  I got tired of being nice, though. My first permanent suspension was because I told Tucker Carlson I hoped his house would burn down.

    I created a new account. Two new accounts, actually. One for my personal scrolling needs, and one with the username “bullyingterfs,” created for doing just that. I went to JK Rowling’s Twitter, scoured her replies for the most egregious transphobia, and harassed them until they deleted their accounts. It worked twice, and then I got permanently banned.
    My other account lasted longer. It kept me busy from age 14 to age 18. Until September 8th, 2022. The first thing I did in the morning was check Twitter. Feeling especially full of morning anger, I thought of the most malicious tweet that would get me the most attention. I tweeted “@queenelizabeth Die Bitch!” I put my phone down.
    Queen Elizabeth died at 3:10 pm that day. My Twitter account was forever gone.

    I deleted Twitter from my phone recently. I only use it for fifteen minutes a day, and only in the browser of my laptop. I miss being able to know everything all the time, to tweet every thought that I have, every annoyance, every excitement, every fear. I blog now instead. I write poetry and long-form content, things that force me to think what I write, not write what I think.

abroad fair

i’m going to the study abroad fair because fuck it why not

maybe i’ll get a sticker for my guitar case or a chip clip that i’ll never use

im too old to actually go abroad but i still love to wander and chat

are there even any interesting programs for english majors?

you can write anywhere, you can read anywhere. there’s no

animals to study and dissect, no governments to observe and

learn from, no people to help or people to hurt or people to hate,

but i really like going to fairs.

me singing not by big thief while videos of younger me performing play in the background

 

not to much on the editing or the quality or the singing or the guitar i did my best my macbook could barely handle this

the periphery

i sleep through fire alarms and alarm clock alarms 

and i drink one mason jar of water a day (except

for the days when i drink ten mason jars of 

water a day) and i have so much DIRT under my 

fingernails. im always bleeding from somewhere

if not my index finger then my toe, if not my toe

then my nose, if not my nose, then my vagina. and

i hang art on my wall by artists i've never heard of 

but i really like the way the dove is framed. every

day my sheets come off my bed and every day i 

fix it. i hate using spaces and i love using commas, 

but a run on sentence isnt a run on until you add so

much information that the brain cant read anymore 

of it and you start to get confused and you have to

go back to the beginning of the sentence to reread

it. i wear mismatched socks and my fingers and nose 

are freezing. i cant talk to people one-on-one but i 

can scream in the middle of a classroom as long as

someone is embarrassed for me. i use grammarly but

ignore all of its suggestions. i make sense to myself

but spit out words i dont agree with when confronted

with questions i dont quite understand. i wish i had 

a hobby but all i do is write and wish and write and 

wish and write and wish and write and wish and 

why writing poetry (right now) is so intimidating

 we are modernists. the first of us were gertrude stein and

 william carlos williams, the writers who took the rules 

of the romantics and shoved it in a blender. each form,

each theme each cliche turned upside down, torn apart,

stitched back together, ignored completely. stein and 

wiliams were born in the nineteenth, though: writing since 

before the radium girls. they were modernists. we are 

modernists. over a century of modernism and each rule

each form, each theme, each cliche, have been examined

and dissected like sick lab rats. when all the food is gone,

what are we supposed to eat? should we try to revive the

old food, or should we sow new seeds? how can a poem

be unique if what makes it unique isnt unique? and yes,

uniquity is a sin, but where can creativity spark instead?

go back to the rules, follow them beat by beat? its just

as derivative, so how is one supposed to write a poem.

my response to rational criticism

 for a split second i'm suicidal.

of course i am, a labor of love

torn and tattered by a man (yes,

a man) who i met less than a 

fortnite ago (yes, a fortnite, not 

a fortnight). but its easy to 

ignore and deflect, blame his

manhood and his newness, i 

can take his words and his 

underlined meanings and create

something worth reading; no 

mores spitting out and wishing i 

was better. because i shouldn't

look for the most interesting word, 

but the most precise one. the 

feeling isn't anxiety, its compassion. 

 

I read that in a bathroom stall once.

i really dislike this poem and that is not me being humble that is me knowing when poetry is good and when it is bad (this is bad.)

 The sidewalk sparkles

If you tilt your head
just right. Only
on a day where the
Sun boils your skin and
Fries your eggs,
but you’ll walk along
it until your heels
blister just like your skin.

When Earthworms that
assemble on the surface
onto puddles and mud
lay dead, dried out
on the pavement,
post-Salamander weather.
Their bodies haunt
the sidewalk and dulls
its sparkle.

It will when the barren
Trees and fogged mind
turn into the type of
weather that makes People
compliment my
hair’s undertones,
how it reflects the
garnet splotches in
the back that didn't
become saturated
The last time I dyed it.

It will once
the Sky holds
the type of Sun that
keeps you warm
and glowing despite
the Winds blowing you
further away from
home, where all the
Earthworms live
and the sidewalks still
sparkle.

ode to pages (i wrote on the bus)

 my writing app of choice

is the default apple pages

and though it isn't popular 

its certainly one for the ages.

my friends hate it lots

but they all use word

which is pussy shit for pussies

and used by only nerds.

so pages, ill keep you close

in the prime spot on my dock

ill draft in you, i'll write,

my love for you's on lock.

doorstep blues

when i knocked on the door my 

feet planted firmly on the step

i was surprised to see that a 

large grizzly bear answered my 

knock. "rowuarurhuhghuh?" he

asked, contemplatively. I wasn't

sure how to answer, as i knew

little about grizzlies and what 

they liked talking about. "yes,

thank you!" i happily responded, 

respondently. he slammed the 

door in my face, barely an inch

away from the tip of my nose.

why was he so mad at me? what

had i done? I had bearly said a word!

haiku

my nose needs a hat 

and my fingers need mittens! 

why so cold in here!

no alarm

 because even if you wake at noon there

are things you can do with your day. like

start a new show with your friends. or

learn new things about a poem you thought

you knew everything about. or research

controversial performance art for a half

hour instead of doing your bob dylan 

album listening homework response (despite

the fact that you love the class and need

to impress the professor). or smoke weed.

i swear i can writeabout more than women getting eaten by dogs

 Andromethian

I can't quit my chained maiden
Who pliés around the welkin
From stone to stone, and crater
To crater, hypergolic. She spins
And laughs, I swell with love. I call
Her a reminicantagonist, a futurephiliac
But as she always does, she floats
Ahead. Skipping, stone to stone,
Alpheratz towards Canis and his son.
She knows what will come next,
She’s lived it before. This is her
Purgatory. Andromeda and Canis,
Jezebel and Jehu, my women and
The wolves that eat her. Over and
Over she comes to me, a single
Match in her silken palms. She
Runs it against my desiccated elbow
And its flame becomes our north star.
She dances with paleticocity, she will
Love, and yet the dogs always find her:
Analgesiacally, angelisctically painful.

im having trouble writing a poem for class

 I smashed a beer bottle against a rock
And to my surprise I now have a large
Gash in the middle of my palm. It was
Skunked, the type of beer I would hide
In the back of my dresser behind my
Socks (just like my mom does with her
Cigarettes) to crack open on an evening
Where I feel a bout of perturbation about
To enter. The blood from my hand spilt
Onto my sweater, the one I wore to my
High school graduation and great uncles
Funeral.

guilty

 feeling very guilty today! i didnt really do much to feel guilty about except for everything that i did to feel guilty. so if i have done anything to you anything evil or anything mean. or anything that made you feel bad. or anything at all please forgive me. thank you!

synecdochical

 my name is synecdochical.

because i am the fifth grade girl 

with curly merlot hair from extended

day who could always make

the teachers laugh to get out

of trouble. and the greying 

man  at some fancy resturaunt

who played brown eyed girl 

on the piano for me while

my family talked about baseball. 

and the boy i pretended to have

a crush on in sixth grade who

played along with our bogus 

romance and then came

out in high school. and the 

pseudonistic motivational blog

who made a tumblr post i saw 

at age thirteen that told me the 

only way to be who i want to be

is to take it from everyone else. 

this isnt a poem this is just what i did today

today i did four things 

i went to the mall and 

bought a new phone case

because my old one was

broken. i went to sally's 

and bought black hair 

dye because i saw one 

girl on pinterest who 

had it and i wanted to 

be her. i went to my 

third applebees interview

(im still not sure why 

applebees has such an 

elaborate convoluted

hiring process) and got 

rejected because they don't

allow dyed hair unless 

it is a natural color.

i took three bus connections

home from applebees

and read a humdrum book

about something or other.

i'm not going to dye my hair

black out of spite for

applebees and dine brands

global incorporated. 

UGH! i miss my colored pencils.

 

how to be

who even CARES if these even count 

as poetry. if there is a lot of

unnecessary enjambment then any line

can have super secret special

interpretations that the inartistic man

can not quite determine. if

you add the words that you learned

this week like "extant" and 

"ethnomusicology" then you could

even make yourself seem a

little bit more poetic than you are.

making it up

 i like to make up words like tamboronic and 

infantagonism because to me they mean something

but to everyone else my vocabulary sounds 

really good. you dont know the definition of 

candlistically because i made that up.

recommendations

 notes of a crocodile

the stone face

dirty glasses

fiona apple

being john malkovitch

carrie

zip up sweatshirts

famous prophets (stars)

awe

circular eyeliner

weiland

sidebang

snl

the people in the trees

sleeping in socks

temporary solutions

a pad of paper under the front two legs of my bedside table 

help to keep it from slanting, a piece of duct tape holds my 

vape together. some dollar-store superglue and a hair tie keep 

my headphones in place and Wellbutrin keeps everything else

 in place. my door doesn't close all the way and it has knots

in it that look like faces when im high enough, the doorknob

doesn't turn but if you jiggle it right the door will open fine.

Hawthorne loved the woods, Poe loved haunted houses.

At least there's nothing under my floorboards.

fingering

 im fingering my guitar and its spitting out

the first eight notes of some song about 

feeling embarrassed at the grocery store and i

keep getting the seventh note wrong but i 

will play it again and again, wrong and wronger

until maybe someday i become a better fingerer