Writing

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…

She sat thick on him

Like spaghetti, Like syrup, Like a waist.

She was delicate

In his hands,

Like spaghetti

Through his lips,

Rice paper

I would like to think about you,
I would like to touch you -
In the bright hallways of my mind
You sit behind one of the many black latticed doors, where glowing light hums through soft rice paper panes.
Where are you...
At night, in sleep, I open them;
I wander through, looking for you,
Slow,
Methodical.

#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.

well are ya

are u the kinda girl that leaves the house with her hair wet?
are u that woman that walks in, loud -
do u care if ur laugh is heard?
do u care if ur words are stale, salty, stiff, rich, lugubrious, languorious, glorious,
extramatrimonious, 
known, understood, 
painters of landscapes, creators of…

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

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