Rachel

says can I kiss you.
It’s midnight there are mothy half-stars
leaning in the window. Inside of my mouth
tastes cough-drop bitter though I would

like very much to kiss her
in her horn-rimmed glasses weak as winter she slips them
off she closes her eyes
seals up the woozy blues of her eyes

and kneeling leans in closer
near me till she’s only
silver-blue hair and color and a taking
away of flat lips and for all

the rest of the night I wander through her attic swallowing cough suppressants.
I crawl into my sleeping bag at five and gape at the peach of the morning sky.

Sentience is Confidence
(dedicated to Alex Francis)

amongst the bananas
I walk
unafraid
for what are their slimy yellow smirks
to somebody like me who can experience subjectively
with pants and fingers and intestines
with love and potassium deficiencies
and other ways of interpreting stimuli that fruits are not equipped to interpret

slipping on the peel
of a banana I have eaten
I fall upon my butt

I strut and fall and strut
down a long empty road
uniformly coated in banana peels

Rest In Public

Murdered Star Relaxing With Her Boyfriend
Inside Their Grave: Tequila Worms . . . For Him?
Zombie Starlet Talks New Movie: Dead End
Hot Zombie Starlet Rotting At The Gym
Murdered Actress Gains Pounds, Says She’s Poisoned
Her Beach Pics: Headless, Showing Lots Of Skin
Murdered Actress Goes On Buzzard Cleanse
Inside Her Coffin: Blood, Old Sexy Friends

Sudden Onset Cyclops (SOC)

I woke up one morning cyclops
The cheesebus came for me I hid
I didn’t want to eat the other children & be someone they didn’t want to play with
Went went went
Found a cave
Lived in it
Ate french-fried stalactites
Studied darknessology

People think being a cyclops is having one eye maybe as big as two eyes
Maybe the size of a face in a nest of golden eyebrows
Nope
Actually
There’s one side of the world you never get to see
Unless you spin extra extra fast
& you can hardly go around this way every time I go
People zip past on their bicycles
Ogling my left tit yelling
“Hey honey hey baby! Nice left tit!”
Not ideal not ideal but this way
If the tit falls off my heart I will be the second person to know about it

Funny because if it really fell
How many people would still
Look at the tit
All covered in mud
Footprints
Gum maybe
Bleeding
Really really needing a scrubbing

My other eye meanwhile is still crying at Mom & Dad’s
An old friend tells me they make it
Wash the dishes with my old tears if you can believe it

Fistfight Your Worst Energy

My face spliced in the static.
Then you shoved my head between three bar
chords for a good four years. A party went on
around me. Until I tore out.
Now you wait for me in bathroom stalls
hands absorbing graffiti for the first blow.
I too am prepared with harsh realities
an arrow dashes toward your grasp.
We get down, two buzzards circle
the same flesh, boring and rotten without us.
Two capes wrestle for the same empty city.
The floor shifts, this fight is on
carousel. Your teeth are red, the horses
laugh, and the world a blur zooming
into focus.

Zoe Dzunko interviews Chelsea Hodson

Wi Fi Killed The Coffee Shop:

The morning rush on Clark
crowds the corner Starbucks store.
No seats. No struggles.
Just coffee and unpredictable Wi Fi.
Flooded by feeds about Back To The Future
and what it got wrong. I check in via Facebook
sitting at community tables where laptop cases
carry the madness expecting to be
undone. I would love to die while the barista
asks what I want, even though I rehearsed my order in line.
I find a seat awkwardly as white-collared men try to make small talk,
with this tattooed hipster girl. I shrug it off and we go about our lives quietly,
living the lie like it’s a living room. I’m told other coffee shops aren’t like this.
But as long as the caffeine atones for each
awkward and sexually charged encounter,
I’ll keep coming back…

Just Another Bloody Mess:

Make poetry a bomb inside you
Spew guts and phrases
Be the unwanted geyser of words
Let the world rape you and stay
< / recoil; resist; repeat >

Fugazi Plays To My Insanity In Psych Ward Waiting Rooms

I’m not depressed…just disappointed.

I don’t mind wondering how I got here. But I do mind living this listless existence.

They told me I was holy and then watched MTV.

Guarded by white gilded matrons who took away my cell but left me the headphones.

I head bang to silent symphonies.

Quests for genius in the suburbs led me to corporate structured Apple stores with big lines and small products.

Here we sell souls to mask our mass perceptions.

Instead of learning to spell the words to hear them out, we build white knuckled deities into blood shot evenings.

Form giants into clouds and vice versa.

I left home and holstered my glazed goodbyes into an iPhone six.

Rioted down lanes (not across streets), and
swigged petty remorse in hollowed out poetry halls.

I imagined and glorified the look on lonely mother’s face when she would see her last-born die first.

Mortality is not an empty watch tied to bound wrists,
but a rosary stuck between still fingers.

Drank whiskey/coke and shook catholic nothingness from my bare hands.

Dulled my headache ten times twelve to be sure.

I’m depressed,
But I’m still here.