Chairs on the terrace

Then let me be the woman who folds
open the chairs and spreads them out,
one chair for each thing she doesn't
say, one for every non-touch.

And then let's go there, you, me, 
each separate, sit,
just for a while, maybe.

Counting the chairs under breath,
making visible that what didn't happen,
make it attendable, make it dreamable.

Let me.

Highway to hell

I distrust people
-not like a zebra
who suspiciously looks
at vague contours
in the high grass
near the watering hole-
no, simply like how
a little boy
in Hiroshima
looked at
Little Boy

Don't trust poets

No poets who 
empty pens to made up exes
exploited with a loose wrist

Daddy-issues made into a puppet show.

Better to grind the machine into the ground yourself.
Pin their opinions to your forehead.

A collection that adapts itself so it becomes personal.

Don't be mistaken.  The dialect
from Amazon warriors, turtles and goosebumps 
is in all seriousness and reason the strongest.
Each step we climb higher. More nostalgic.
To the essence. Until you recognize yourself. Pick a fight.

Don't trust poets who
turn in notes like stalkers,

Better leave poetry to read today's newspaper.

Brain me out. Let yourself be needed.

Go and experience some shit, loose drinking games,
rape nights. Channel your skin inside out.
Walk away before you and everyone around you turn into words.