knees on wooden floor
what small bullshit will I scrump today
please don’t like me only because I am familiar comfortable like sweatpants
sure I could warm my own yogurt behind the fridge
save a few plastic cups
but where would I squeeze the milk?
where is this cow?
where is my pasture?
as I like myself I think
if I get this thing I will be okay!
this is a lie
stop telling myself this lie
if I feel like swamp be swamp
then my finger starts to twitch uht uh no shakes
I search the web for right index tremors
When I am afraid I don’t know how to read a book
or make comments about book
but I do I touch it first
excerpt from domusphere, a long poem
can I tell you what is really in this room? a roach who doesn’t tire of collecting her pearls. an imposter fusion buffet, crusting at the stove
I only write when I feel the weight of patriarchy sitting juicy on my sternum, like Janet Jackson’s cover of Rolling Stone. so I don’t know if I love writing but I know that I like to look at writing as it writes itself so handsomely, what a good girl, doing work, right now!
out of sight out of my. tony thighs that ensure a stack of chicken breasts in the fridge. salted. a boiled boredom
don’t microwave THANK YOU bags from the store. don’t microwave chip bags to make a miniature LAY’S for your dollhouse. stop chip science
a coterie of votaries for my honey. a homesick fragrance for when I miss fish sauce, the thick kind that has the eyes of small shrimp embedded like seeds. slip into pages of cabbage in a rash of red
hot and heavy and heady. sloshing the meats and upheaving desire
cold morning obsessions. a hot pot