I wish you were my cousin, so I would be forced to hang out with you (best compliment I've received) poetry and art at http://murooned.tumblr.com/
What happened to all the glass slippers?
All the little black girls at midnight turn to prison shivs.
People used to wear palm leaves,
unisex skirts with nothing in imagination, ditch dead.
We’re going all in on the exhaust pipes,
resigning themselves to brown on one end
like mediocre cigarettes.
Other people bet on the telephones poles,
The squid tasted better after the bombs,
With a hint of the first patented fertilizer.
Stop complaining! Ghosts are the real paparazzi,
And they wonder what you did to eat silkworms every day.