Poem

they’re just words.
it’s very simple.
they toss about in your mind like a salad,
like cilantro -
people either hate it or they love it.
they marinate in the richest sauces,
mixed with blood,
bleeding past the margins
and dictating how long it is they rest.
Rest,
Rest,
Resting is important for the truest
flavor
to emerge. The sense of it.
Sometimes…

street crossing

I saw a guy cross the street
He had a different life than you
He’s not in prison

She sat thick on him

Like spaghetti, Like syrup, Like a waist.

She was delicate

In his hands,

Like spaghetti

Through his lips,

The Earth is amazing.
Have I ever told you that?

A rich carpet of green
Draped over a craggy mountain loveseat;

A river that runs through it,
A pocket of lakes

Today I can see how Manzanar happened.
People, scared, clutching at what they Have,
Clawing to keep Others away,
Not realizing it’s Gone.

#syrianrefugees

11.18.15

#drugs

Hi! Rachel,
Super
excited
to
meet
you.

You can call me Alice
or Anna
or Bellgarden
or Beatrix
or Beatrice,
whatever works for you.

a fond, tickling feeling
that i used to write

that words used to come to me
and splay their legs on my page

that i’d take a whisper
and let myself be seduced by it

the long and skinny

i wanted to write this poem
about tiny purple flowers
that grow on a hill
and i imagined
that it would be long and
skinny,
the poem,
and that it would go on
for pages and pages
so that it would definitely be,
or at least
feel,
worth
your
money;
but then just now
as i started
writing
it
i

I was in Chinatown, and I noticed an older Chinese man.
He dropped something and it rolled around on the sidewalk.

It was a dried date.

He picked it up and he ate it.
Then he walked around, hunting for smashed, inch-long cigarette butts.
He picked each one up between his…

Girl writes thing.
Or, she waits for herself to write it.
In the back of the bus,
pen raised,
no — pen Tapping
expectantly.