He looks like Tchaikovsky

he looks like Tchaikovsky
autographed the lower
part of my back
with cum
watching True Romance
I know the violence
he was born with

an Iranian man once told me
the Italians invented the
French language he’d been milk fed in the
black hills of South Dakota

sometimes I think it’s all about
where you plant the flag
a wet spot on my shirt

I am a bad dinner guest

I am a very bad dinner guest. Chopping off my hand with a butcher knife! (My elbows did not touch the table once.) A bloodied tablecloth, a phone vibrating in my pocket. “Why are my hands shaking?” I ask with disgust for my own body as I attempt to shove the tip of a key into my nostril. He places a hand on my knee and I shake off his affection. I wipe off the backwash from the rim of my wine glass with a disinterested finger while I nod politely; EVERYONE’S GETTING PUBLISHED NOW! EVERYONE’S GETTING FINGERED NOW! I cross and uncross my legs. I turn to him and ask him if he thinks they’ll still be able to re-attach my hand if we wait until after dessert.

plastic watermelon

welcome the sky inside of you. hold me closer in the tiny rain. baby, I have been wondering about the time zones of waiting and the phenology of watering. waking up inside of my self isn’t always beautiful, but waking up beside you is beautiful all the time. the pattern we make together is crystalline. baby, the compost in the biodegradable bag in the plastic bin is a symphony of decay and flowers are sometimes spaceships. all beautiful things die, but think about the space between mountains anyways. I am a woman for you, baby, I am your gigantic earthly delight. come rage, come uncertainty. baby, brilliantly, come. baby, come. avoid the ambient watermelon. it is too heavy. hold me in the gentle rain with certainty. hold this time zone of waiting. together we make a watering mouth. wonder with me about the pattern between mountains and the smallest crystals. I am gigantic for you, baby, I am a tiny spaceship. I am waking up beside you in certainty. baby, come, baby, I have wandered between time zones. I have been a watermelon seed. I have wilted. I have decayed, for you, baby, I am new. I have been waking up as beautiful as wondering. love is the space between mountains that holds distance together. love is a watermelon smashed on the sidewalk. I have been waking up as open as the sky for you, baby. I am all guts and seeds and rain.

Ann Beattie on David Markson

i wish someone would teach me how to go back to sleep

you wake with a sticky note on your

bare ass; it says “kiss me”

your oj tastes like stale beer

everything tastes like stale beer

you are overwhelmed with

meaninglessness

you divide this feeling by

the number of others that have also felt this way and

dissolve slowly into

eternity, like what have you done to “contribute”

to “civilization” and “progress”

if only this feeling could be enough

to put gas in the car and buy cigarettes

if only this feeling could call on a few favors

and get you an interview for that job which you will

inevitably come to hate

try to masturbate but can’t

cum because you keep seeing his face, asking

“where do you see yourself in five years”

“what’s the point”

“do you not love me anymore”

when you stare at any body of water
you can’t help but wonder
“how big of a rock do i need to really
fuck this river up?”

summer

most days i work —

whisper secrets to plants and

listen to book tapes

make and then remake

“easy” and “fun” to-do lists

which i lose before

completion

“take shower”

“put on clothes”

“buy white ceramic planter”

exchange gasoline for the illusion of

togetherness

(ascribing characteristics to

the drivers of Hondas

and Chevys

makes me feel

less alone

sometimes)

crack a beer

and then another

accidentally make

my mom cry

avoid facebook

and my phone

i am learning

how to be “an adult”

i am learning
how to be ok
with being
alone

hearse at the racetrack

many separate and distinct paths
when seen from a distance converge
to create a circle
an infinite loop lined with
rusting blood and
wilted party balloons

smoke clings to your shirt like death
as i am making you coffee in the morning
every time we die we come back
into a world of newer brighter colors

you have lived many lives by now
today you are quiet and observant
and humble; beginnings look
more and more like ends

cradle of dust in a bomb shelter
blood on the tracks you are passing
by without looking back

we experiment with cataloging our existence
bubble gum wrappers and
cigarette packs nailed to the wall in desperation
waiting for the dust to settle
so that we might catch our breath
waiting for the signal or that new messiah guy

it shouldn’t be long now

I am a girl by Daphné Cheyenne

Watch this great video created from a poem by Daphné Cheyenne, previously published here at Electric Cereal.

She has a total of five poems with us and one in Metatron.

And if you read French, check out her blog.