All right.
Here's another angry poem.
So I work in Midtown Manhattan.
And I write on my lunch break as did Frank O'Hara.
So there's a noble tradition.
So you can imagine a slightly tired and pissed off
lesbian version of Frank O'Hare.
War on The Lunch Break.
What's war?
You're not able to find the other dark pearl earring,
and you don't really care except that earring is your brother.
He's dead.
And there was only one.
You'll never see him again.
What's war?
eternal countrylessness Lady poets writing about
cock not thinking about gender.
My friends married in Vegas to good old boys or hipster
drummers just because they can.
Or when I contemplate starving myself, so I'd be the bomb,
or I'm sorry, I keep tossing and turning.
My livelihood here depends on people
who've never tasted war and act offended
when one leaves work on time.
Nor did I ever lay hiding dying in a ditch.
But if I had, I think that I'd know much about dry grass.
The incredible value of it just to see the stalks move
would be enough.
I'd like to have time to type this.
But all day long they're looking over my shoulder.
I do feel sorry for them.
What's it like to care so much?
Talk morning and night to a proctored God.
Tidier toy box before bed to get degrees have interests.
Is that the anti-war?
Is that why I can't even read?
I know there's war all around me.
And inside there's war.
Who died?
Who cheated?
When will she look at me like that?
What language is this?
I hope no one breaks in and rapes us.
I never see sunlight.
The sun in the yard is so contentless it almost heals.
It is a series of chambers where I'm shown what I do have.
Weight, electricity, a sense of balance.
Can that be enough?
I don't know how to end this.
A fade out on the grass.
A cop out.
Something a sexy girl poet would say like the terrorists
have won kiss me awake.
Encore cock her boots show us your boobs.
I'm so fucking tired of the sound of sexy of me being sexy
muse body with ship launch face.
I can't read because I'm dying.
That's the truth I'd rather take in the sunlight like a dog.
You theorize your own way out of this paper bag.
What's war?
This.
I feel the sunlight, but I keep asking why.