Bossy Behavior

Month: August, 2013

I Need Some Good Words Fucked Into Me

I need some good words fucked into me


I need to find the right lines

to right me.

traveling the tides of time

on the backs of

Bradford blossoms,

the stench of carrion nostalgia-

I heard it was the strongest

of our longings-

to become such as fossils,

to relive what were.

a million reasons to be


a million reasons to

spread my legs-

a million reasons for the

birds to sing-

in which I cannot see

but it churns the tides anyway,

learning to love the

right way, after

being fostered by drunk brutals

or father’s in their own right-

I’ve left that decade

in a grave of lines,

lines I’ve scribed

and lines left unearthed.

Clover Bracelet

I left

because I had to

prove it to



but I see

my reflection

in your

face, a landside.


clover from


torn with grass

and all


tied to your


the delicate



pointing at

the jar

I say, this

is where honey comes from.


(I’ll never

leave you.)

I Can’t Do Nothin Right


I wanted to say you were beautiful

but that’s what creeps say.

I noticed dogs bark the loudest

behind their master’s fences.

I wanted to love you in person

but it’s easier when you’re away.

I did a swell job at

poisoning the well didn’t I?

I guess blood pacts

are my addiction, especially the flimsy ones.

I tried to conjure the greats
with shadow puppets on my wall.

I’m greedily repentant

I’m hungry, hungry and sorry.

This is for You, Melon Head


sappy music


pouring slow from speakers as sap




melon head


I saw you on the bridge


50 stones from the river


and 50 stories you


recited to me




with flight response


I blindly








the sun was setting wasn’t it?


the sun


was nodding




it was slipping


into a sherbet horizon


the clouds swallowed it


like a communion






melon head how did you heal?


sun traded rolls with our lone


cold satellite


its lousy atmosphere- it’s paper thin




laugh at my soggy sway, melon head


but I was trying to balance under


those giants




50 thousand stories


50 thousand deaths




Wet Cave

I fled from the thought

the way one escapes pain through poison

wondering in cave blindness

if I could ever be patient enough


I save your lines

I plan to keep them close

to mine

because the more I fall in

this shroud

the more my voice falls faint

I need a stand-in

to help hold this together

to help bail water

that the cave in

its caliginous hospitality

has given me generously

my memories of our

conversation water logged and


the ink now indiscernible

now that I can’t remember

what you said

I’m sorry but

I had to tear your face

out of my book

but at least now we know

where we stand-

with cold feet.

my father puked on my wedding gown

in dreams

we eloped


planned ceremony

of simple bands


Southern priest and

lizards basking mausoleums


my father

made us late


by puking his

stored bourbon on my gown


as I was

beating him ruthlessly


our dream

fell apart


like white bread

in milk

Now I’m Sweating

Now I’m Sweating


now I’m sweating,

sweating and I remember walking

really heavy and fat at seven-teen-

it was like ninety degrees

a walk-in oven.

what did I know then?

it feels like that time

happened to someone else,

some girl who happened to die

or fade into obscurity

with stretch marks and cesarean scars

a passive husband and grimy faced children-

but then again I catch

glimpses of that girl

in my own long mirrors

and realize it was

my life a long time ago.


so I was trying to get a job

at some grocery store

and was walking home from the pee test,

nothing to worry about

such as the vanilla life I was tame-

(a subordinate in denial)

walking from the lab in

a sweltering haze

wanting to die

frizzy hair

stuck and humid

some boy I thought I loved

some boy I thought I would die without

sleeping sound in the air conditioning

in my bed-

and I lurched on

busses passing me

with the mild hope I would never sit in one again-

and that I could please a dandruffed haired

and acne scared boy

who harvested dreams of my toil.


as I showered clean and fell

like a fleshy tree with yesterday’s make up

still clinging

beating self-loathing with sleep,

I woke a decade later,

a slim shadow free

and wish that the old me knew

what I had starved to learn-

I smile and think,

I don’t even have a picture

to remember all this by.

Cinderella Situation



there is something

totally unnerving to me

about a single abandoned shoe

in a parking lot.


where is the other one?


where is the foot- the owner?


when did this happen?


did the person have to hobble off?


They had to notice they lost a

shoe, right?


was it a Cinderella situation?

did someone race home before midnight-

lest be shamed?

would it be best if I tried the rottenflop

on every maiden’s foot in the land?


was the person kidnapped?

were they forcefully abducted and

torn away from this life-

into a sack,

calling the four walls of a car trunk


are they waiting for a chance of escape


for the final release from ongoing pain

and terror

forever unknown to me?


so many damn questions

but the intrigue, it lingers-


did the person lose it out of a moving


kicked their leg in summer bliss to the beat of song

and laughed about it later,




was someone fed up with the ill-fitting shoe

and chucked it,

and are now being forced to wear a mismatched pair

now that the anger has worn off

and the embarrassment has set in?


was the person crazy?

one of the many escaped or released patients

from the blocks and blocks of hospitals downtown

frothing with fading restraining medication,

and frenzied with schizo motivation-

barking at people in a single scuffed shoe-


I just realized that I still haven’t left my


and have been only staring at this damn flip flop-

for a time longer than anyone should, but


it looks…chewed?


Is the owner even still alive?




ladybum intimidates

wandering in the median

body bent,

hair coarsely pulled in crooked pony tail.

what happened to your face?

were you born that way?

with cupped hands, pleading-

stopping my car at the intersection,

driver’s side window-

my trying to be cold but guiltily relenting

people are watching and

what will they think?

your crazy eyes pierce me desperately

wild emotion and

something once described to me as crocodile tears-

Tensely clutching the steering wheel,

hastily scooping change and used fuses

to pour them into your hands

wishing you away-

some kinda spell of some halfhearted charity.

depart depart leave my pity intact

so that I don’t see myself

in the gaps of your missing teeth.

the guilt you spill

making my heart heavy

like a gull in petroleum.

I still see you from time to time

and resentfully I examine you,


bent body, missing chin and Baba Yaga legs.

thinking you some kind of witch,

avoiding you like

cracks in the sidewalk.