Sunday,
rich kids play cards at midnight at the local boba shop
I take my boba and go home
slurping loudly to get every last ball
no, my darling, you cannot sleep
until I finish my drink.
lightheaded and frustrated,
I choke on boba
what is this life?
poet
Poem #760
I’m sorry, but
these poems
are everything that I am
Poem #759
the little sapling has hopes
she grows and grows and grows
before she knows it,
that little sapling,
she’s holding the whole world up
the stars drape over her
a glittering big top
a company of performers underneath
dancing and flipping and belting out
before she knows it,
that company of performers,
they’ve taken down the star canvas
they’ve got another world to entertain
but she remains
a big, strong tree without stars to hold up
waiting and crying and waiting
Poem #758 – sleep & grow
sleep
dreaming of arcades and big wins
pushing away those warm nightmare arms
grow
stretching out and up
a warm skyscraper made of bone and skin
devastate
winning problems and aches
splinters of bone crashing to the ground
exist
pretending to be mostly okay
creating my beige bone picket fence
Poem #757 – in which she orgasms when she speaks
she loves words
but that’s probably an understatement
she makes love to words
invoking them for the sheer joy
of the syllables on her lips
the schwa as delightful as a kiss
she recites long treatises
language is more than her toy
her tongue delights in the dips
and the rises of her waxing bliss
she loves words
Poem #756 – maybe I should be a vampire
they say we’re taller in the morning
our spines are puffed up sponges
I know this to be true
because I have to readjust my rear view mirror
every morning
and every evening after work
the day weighs heavy
pushing not just my soul down
but on my spine sponges, compressing them
I get shorter when the day steps on me
only night really likes me
she lets me sleep
and stokes my confidence and my body
to deal with day’s selfish demanding
she is the hero of our generation
she doesn’t demand productivity
at the cost of me
night is the lover I deserve
Poem #755 – gross
mortality throbs in my head
it’s my heart counting down to when
my body finally gives out
that’s why
that’s why I got a tattoo
that’s why I run around
trying to fit everything in
that’s why I cry so much
I’m mourning
that’s why my brain vibrates
shaking up the dirt
that’s why I kiss the dirt
once it’s loose around my grave
I get to take in a stolen breath
that’s why
I’m dead
I’m already decaying
only no one told my body
so, shhh, shut the fuck up
Poem #754
working in the dead hours of the morning
the accountant gets more done
it’s just her and the numbers
she wishes all the hours were dead hours
Poem #753
24 is one of those numbers
divisible by 1, 2, 3, 4
that beauty is a mental parkour
one might want to take this further
however it ain’t so gravy
with 362,880
Poem #752
cricket on the side of the I-5 North
it lives its whole life
counting the loud metal passing by
and it dies
no creature hearing its song