Everyone loves Cinderella until she becomes
a queen. She pulls herself up by her bootstraps,
then, after a one-night stand, she sticks on
a glass slipper and gets whisked off her feet.
Then she gets to live her dream, have her
Achilles tendons lathered and massaged. And
the cankles swell along the old widows standing
in the crowds.
When I woke up yesterday morning,
I felt that the day had
so much potential.
I fell asleep at midnight,
because I have to fall asleep
to begin today.
A kid filled with a bunch of inside jokes and suicide notes
who goes in search of the author in himself
who can prove that anything can happen
and anyone can be affected by his own words
and by his own characters
and by his own emotions
by his own comedy
by his own likes
by his own fraternity
by his own masculinity
by his own want
and by his sheer desire to express himself
A kid who wants to author out of
his sheer desire to express himself
A kid who loses his notebook
I sent you my phone number over the prison
email service and you never called me.
You must have run out of quarters. You could
have used nickels, you know, those pay phones
take them, too. So you could have always called.
I was going to congratulate you on beating
the rap and leaving yourself with just one life
sentence. I was going to congratulate you
on trying to beat the rap and appeal your one
life sentence. That showed commitment. That
showed you were committed on getting your
name clear, getting the names of those you
said you never killed cleared.
Now, all I want to say is I’m glad you ran out
of quarters. I’m glad you forgot about nickels.
when I’m caught in a
current of snow on an
I wonder why we choose
to let the sidewalks
get covered in flurries,
then cleared out by men
feeling hung out to dry
I could shovel just fine.
I don’t mind being all wet.
Today is not the day for pumpkin pie,
light as air, lapping the tongue in
sliding whipped cream. Today is not
the day for sugar, mixed with butter
or medicine or otherwise. Sweetness
will come again someday.
Today is the time for cherries,
bright red, sour, tart, a pit as
hard as a fist just inside. Today is the
time for bite, for fruit picked by hand
from seeds sewn years ago, delivered
to dry, bitter lips.
She sits above the fray of
purple and orange and pink and blue,
too pure, too white, to busy herself
with the nonsense of light
sprawled beneath her.
She’s finally at that time where her
whole face can glow to the ground.
She won’t waste a second of her time
with anything less than herself.
Yet the ground isn’t interested.
It spends what remaining sunlight
there is on tracing its fingers along
the colors’ path, trying to pretend
for a moment that the ground
can paint the sky.
So she stands, mouth open in surprise,
at turned-away eyes.