Portfolio Piece #4

IV.
Simply

We forget, they say, that
the simple things are all we need.
But they don't know simplicity
is all I've ever expected.
I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted, moving in
and out of mental walls and chambers.

I want to live like Death is my neighbor--
somber, dutiful, a good man who always
puts others before himself, but
like me, doesn't take a day off
for a good time--I want to live
 just enough to show him how I'd
complicate the ecstatic. I'd like
to live enough just to show him
how to not be what I used to be.
The simple I still am.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My family. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV, I forgot
what pampering means. I envy
the jersey clubs, the drunken fun,
long strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps like badges, their talk--
the jargon of a new personality,
but my lips fall slack, the strength
of contractions defies me, and it
redfines awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas. Just listen--

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to all the time I wasted taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since I could walk, the only
things you and every one else
has ever given. I spent more time
caressing your ego and filling
your belly more than I ever
received a moment of yours,
all this time, a bust
long before I ever sell a ticket.
I don't want to be a rockstar--

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
jellied guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.
I want to puke my insides
on the hotel floor the next day
because you won't take me to one.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to help myself, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots like some TiVo'd movie
of that time I got the DUI
or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, though none of it ever
happened it would be better
than the time I sat in the corner
 of your friend's party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
 or the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms, mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. I would not show you
how I spend every night tangled
in the hot and anxious mess
of some celebrity behind my
TV screen--doing things
I'd never dream of anyway.

If time allowed it, there would be
someone else I'd rather be
but instead trapped in some scrap
of too surreal hocus pocus,
I am stuck with who I am.
Who that is, I'm not really sure
but I hope that you and I can wait
for the the party to finally start with me,
the one they'd talk about--that me, inside it.

 III.
We forget, they say, that
the simple things are all we need.
But simplicity is all I've ever
expected. I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted out of realms,
moving in and out of mental walls
I've built up around myself.

I want to live like Death is my
next door neighbor--somber,
dutiful, always puts others before
he puts himself--I want to live
enough just to show him how I'd
complicate a good time, fun
with all the consequences, living
just to show him how to not be
what I used to be.
The simple I still am.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My sister. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV. I envy
their clubs, their fun, their long
strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps and talk their slang,
but my lips fall slack with the strength
of contractions, and it ain't nothing
but hillbilly awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to all the time I wasted taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since I could walk, the only
things you and every one else
has ever given me since before
we ever said I do, all of it
long before I ever sell a ticket.
I don't want to be a rockstar--

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
jellied guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.
I want to puke my insides
on the hotel floor the next day.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to help myself, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots like some TiVo'd movie
of that time I got the DUI
or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, not the time I sat
in the corner at the party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
not the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms with mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. Not how I spend every
night, tangled up in the hot mess
of some celebrity behind my
TV screen--for doing things
I'd never dream of anyway, for being

the someone I want to be but left trapped
in some scrap of surreal hocus pocus,
wondering who I really am or when
the party can finally start.


II.
They say we forget the simple
things. They say its all we need.
But simplicity is all I've ever
expected. I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted out of realms,
moving in and out of mental walls
I've built up around myself.

I want to live like death is my
next door neighbor--somber,
dutiful, always puts others before
he puts himself--I want to live
enough just to show him
how to complicate a good time,
just to show him how to not be
the old me.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My sister. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV. I envy
their clubs, their fun, their long
strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps and talk their slang,
but my lips fall slack with the strength
of contractions, and it ain't nothing
but hillbilly awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to how much time I spent taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since diapers were the must-have
item for my age group, all of it
long before I ever sell a ticket.

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
wriggling guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to flex it out, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots of that time I got the
DUI, or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, not the time I sat
in the corner at the party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
not the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms with mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. Not how I spend every
night, tangled up in the hot mess
of some celebrity behind my
computer screen--for doing things
I'd never dream of anyway, for being

the someone I want to be but is trapped
in some scrap of surreal hocus pocus,
wondering who I am really or when
the party can finally start.

I.
Why I Cheated On You


Nothing is more delicious than simplicity
in the realm of the paranormal.
A hard job supporting new episodes
of adoration on a couch cushion.

I'm out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that sweet potatoes could multiply
in Buffalo in a few days,
but it'll amount to what you blame
me for when the tickets sell out.
I want a clean dog like that.
I want a pure trick on my 21st.

I want to hang-on mid-argument.

Discovering laziness beneath the drama
of a girl I know. Removed myself
that moment when I realized
I was stronger than a Spanish hen.

And I built my secret empire
on a scrap of corporal hocus pocus.