I know I’m disappointing my two readers

By making this blog private

Every other day.

Sorry for letting you down.

The truth is,

I believe in radical honesty

When it comes to art.

I couldn’t care less

About abstractions,

Vague sentimentalities,

Art that talks about art.

I prefer brutality

To tact,

Both as audience

And maker.

Some people think 

That what I do here

Is slandering,

Inappropriate exposure of 

Their actions,

Passive aggressive reactions

To minor domestic incidents.

They don’t see the difference

Between concrete acts of violence

And turning my confusion

Into rhythm and sounds.

I hope you do.

Since my roommate declared war

Against me

Because I defend my right

To say what I want

On this blog,

And be spared self-righteous lectures,

I’ve been noticing

That I really don’t look good.

My eyes are swollen

My skin looks yellow

My hair is dull and graying.

We’re all going to die

But my body is giving up

Sooner than it should.

I can’t cook real food,

His dishes are all over,

Feeding roaches.

I can’t risk meeting him

In the living room.

I gave up on the bathroom too.

I just stay here,

Watching Game of Thrones.

Women complain about men a lot.

I used not to get that.

I mean,

My father left when I was seven

Which screwed me up real good,

But for the longest time

I only knew gentlemen,

Much gentler than me, 

In fact.

I used to get mad

And sad

And cry for no reason.

And they would just let it pass.

One time I dated an actor.

Well, that was something else.

But at the moment 

Most men I know

Seem to want me dead 

Or naked in their bed.

I’d rather stay alive,

So show me what you’ve got.

“You show up in this town

You show up in this town

You show up in this town...

The sooner I don’t know you

The better my life will be”

These are things that have beed said to me

Today.

It doesn’t only happen in movies.

Sometimes people start hating you

For the most trivial reasons

And you still have to sleep 

A few feet from their room.

New beginnings are what I’m good at,

So I’ll live.

Still,

I can’t help but wonder

What went wrong.

Going from intimate friends

To mortal enemies

Should take more than three days.

Today I took five buses.

On the first,

I was sitting next to a kid

Who liked my

I-have-seen-the-future button.

-What is that?

-It’s from a movie called 

The Future.

-What is it about?

-Hmmm,

A woman,

A man,

Not much happens,

Until time stops.

And there is a talking cat.

-Oh, THAT KIND of movie.

Do you like art?

-It’s sort of what I do.

He has deep blue eyes

And a golden watch.

He’s eighteen at the most.

He isn’t hitting on me.

We are two strangers

Chatting on a bus

On Easter Sunday.

Somebody just wrote:

“I find your honesty

To be attractive

As hell.”

Well, thanks.

Except that 

It’s easier to like it

When you don’t have to

Deal with me

In everyday life.

I work better

As an imaginary character.

You can dress me in fancy clothes

Like a paper doll,

Or imagine me

With a whip

And (vegan) leather boots.

As a real person

I am quick-tempered,

Irrational,

Vengeful,

Loud,

Or unnervingly quiet.

I can hold a grudge for fourteen years

For THAT thing you did.

I have seven false teeth,

And I secretly want to rule the world.

Ghostbusters on netflix

Is what I need tonight.

New York,

You made my life exciting

But you never made me happy,

Anyway.

I am a pro at feeling sad,

No matter where I am.

I hear a noise,

I make a sound 

To scare the mouse away.

Behind the closet door 

I find the stone

My friend Dan bought for me

In SoHo.

If I can’t have good friends

In the Midwest

Let me have at least

My own apartment,

Hardwood floors,

So when I get a man

As good as Bill Murray

We will glide on them and laugh.

Some people

Don’t have a sense of humor.

Or maybe they don’t like to be told

What sounds,

Disturbingly,

Like the truth.

Dear reader,

Near or far,

I don’t care if you do things

I don’t approve of.

I’m sure I do things that piss you off.

I’m not here to convert you.

But you see,

This place

Is where I tell MY truths,

And if you prefer fantasies

Of ethical massacre,

Consensual rape,

Civilized Break-ups,

Watch TV.

Don’t read 

The words

Of somebody

Who will die alone,

And is okay with it.

Don’t teach me

How to live.

One of my roommates is not vegetarian.

He is cooking meat next to my room.

The smell is inescapable.

I should open the window.

BRB.

Now the room is cold.

And I am hungry.

My stomach doesn’t know that

I don’t approve of murder.

Something else I don’t approve of

Is people who look like people

I would like to be friends with,

But who

Mysteriously,

And cowardly,

Vanish.

This has happened to me enough

To be a sign.

I guess I talk 

And move my hands

Too much.

So I warn you:

You won’t like me

Unless you’re nuts.

You switched rooms

So you could fit

A double bed at last.

You found a mattress in the alley.

I bought you sheets for Christmas,

Red and soft.

One day I brought my thyroid pills

So I could stay over

Any time.

I never did.

We went to the park

To talk for one
                          last 
                                  time.

I couldn’t say a word.

We had met

A few feet away,

In September.

You said:

This is where we met,

I was reading Wallace then

I am reading Wallace now.

Can we find comfort

In geometrical precision?

I like my circles

Perfectly

Round.

A bad day again.

Going out to do laundry

Feels like the only sane thing

To do.

It’s the sort of day 

In which I wonder

Why,

If I’m making good work,

Nobody is giving me a scholarship.

And if I’m not

What am I spending all this money for anyway?

I should be a farmer instead.

Also,

If I am a worthy woman

Where are the worthy men?

And if I’m not,

I’ve been failing at life

For thirty-two years.

Why wash all these sheets

And underwear,

Tidy up my room,

Write poems

Nobody will read

But you.