Performance is the worst possible backseat driver.
Performance puts in long hours,
But quite frankly it’s needy.
I want to go right,
But I can do things better on the left,
So I fly left.
My little metrics pusher guiding my wheel.
Performance is born of pride and pressure.
I, Little package of blood and bone, need to find my own place to go.
My subconscious is a group project with many subcommittees.
Hopefully there are people much smarter than me
Making some of these decisions.
As it stands,
I have my hand in an oil can
While building a house from matches.
At night I fear silence so I whisper my anthems to God,
I spend the day trying to be a kite-
And then burning every kite in a 10 mile radius because I’m mad I failed.
The wind in the conifers beckons,
Yet the subcommittees have all voted no,
And I cry in my yard
and don’t understand why I do
The day is clean shaven,
When the city eaters and their svelte gray machines
Enter in through the back M- across a complicit river.
When the streets failed under the filmy force,
The people had nowhere to walk.
They stayed in their apartments and watched the world burn –
Because the landlord didn’t secure the railing
Once the grocery stores were chewed up and spit out
By an Eater called Fin
I fled to sleep.
Bereaved valleys cave under the pressure of a flooded dam.
Poke enough holes with the refillable pencil you stole from Anthony
And anything can happen.
The valley is lost.
He doesn’t understand what he did.
For everything on Earth there is a cause-
Except for you, who rose from nothing and names the dead.
If patient has a red ring around her throat, use antiseptic.
Love rashes are contagious.
Hands clasped means she will die waiting for a train
If you don’t mend her before you send her
Back into a susceptible world.
Cauterize the eyes. Seeing only hurts the patient.
Put a shunt in her cheeks.
Saliva leads to kissing, to being terminal.
Treble clef blessed with a melody
That skims sour day.
Bas clef was never as loved
By almost anyone.
I am a percussionist
And I want no part of this healthy, well balanced fight.
Think of the loudest thing you ever heard.
Now dial it up like your grandmother you don’t call for a reason.
This story is not about me.
It is about the boy on the third row
In band class,
Who shrank to two feet tall when spoken to.
I did not speak to him
Because I was a mute.
I Felt bad for him.
He buried himself in the brass.
One day the band was waiting for him when he walked in
Sans band members
The trumpet yelled,
Sick with John’s cold.
You need to get a stronger tongue.
I have just the thing.
The trumpet flew to his mouth with the end blaring into
The boy’s throat and he convulsed as it scraped the
Insides of his toes and came back up again.
Then the boy could not stop speaking.
I listened from the instrument closet.
He was excited and incomprehensible
Until the flute whispered in his ear,
And he reunited with himself.
When the band members frolicked in
He said in a loud, smooth voice,
Give me the first chair.
I am looking for trouble,
And I find it on a beach.
Trouble looms large and does cover my breasts.
Crabs make their home in the sand.
I make mine at the sea and he holds me back.
I wanted to be my own deckhand until I decided to find trouble.
He removes my feet and I wanted nothing to do with it,
Stranded away from the ocean and his challenging eye.
Why did I need to get a rush while I waited at the dock?
His hands are like urchins,
And I want to swab every part of me clean.