... and then there was stuff.

stuff and things.

No one ever told me I was a princess.

My little ponies were valiant animals
carrying ninja turtles into battle.
Pink hair was fire
Strands of glitter: pure electricity
Big eyes and smiles just smokescreens
My Little Trojan Horse

No one ever told me I was a princess.

I had drum sticks for scepters and
the sweat from my brow made all the gems
fall off my tiara.
I got my ball gown caught on a nail
I lost a slipper while climbing the ladder
to paint the glass ceiling black.
I nearly choked on my pearls
opening my mouth wide enough
to let my mind speak.

No one ever told me I was a princess,

so I stayed out past midnight.
The poison apple? I spit it out.
Ariel didn’t fool me; my voice is
not available for barter.
Damsel in distress over the state of things,
wondering how our daughters will
paint their own escape route rainbows
when they've only been handed pink crayons.
Getting called out for “slut-shaming” Tinkerbell
when my only concern is that
she wasn’t the one who picked out that dress.

No one ever told me I was a princess,

or that I was perfect, flawless, impeccable.
My mom did not swaddle me
in a false sense of security blanket;
I learned to generate heat with friction.
Paving my own way became an addiction
and I was never force fed that bitter fiction
that lulls even ugly stepsisters
into a trance like Sleeping Beauty-
believing that they are free within the castle walls that surround them
because the ornate antique mirrors lining every corridor
give the impression of a less confining space.

No one ever told me I was a princess.
That’s how I came to believe I could be queen.


My oven exploded this evening
as it was warming up
for baked red potatoes.

It was the heating element that went.

First, an electric buzzing noise
like jacked up warhead mosquitoes.

Then a flash, a flame, and
my colander hit the floor as I backed away.

Now it's no potatoes, no oatmeal, and no tea.

For breakfast tomorrow: a microwaved burrito.

Destination appliance section!

All I can think is,
why couldn't it have been
that awful fridge instead?


Still Real
Making friends is hard
when you're not seven anymore.

Grown-ups always said,
"Don't talk to strangers."
And now we're all nervous,
self-conscious grown-ups,
unsure of ourselves,
trying to figure out how to effectively talk to strangers.
Hiding behind lists of 25 things only introverts will understand.

In the future, people who don't have debilitating social anxiety
are going to have to start volunteering for research studies,
which will be conducted via subdural microchip.

It's just so easy to dismiss
and to be dismissed
at the click of a button these days.
Scared to say the wrong thing, and
unable to confront ourselves, much less other people.
We know way too much about each other
without ever really getting to know anyone.

Our plumage has begun to atrophy and molt as we
scroll directly to the "favorite movies and music" section.

How are we to demonstrate prowess in a world
where cars are beginning to parallel park themselves?

And how many birthdays do you know by heart?

Do you remember the specific pattern of varied tones
your best friend's phone number used to make?

The problem is, girls don't trade disembodied Barbie heads
for flavored lip gloss

But I've got a bottle of fireball whiskey,
and you've got a pretty face.
So let's stay awake forever.
Maybe we could read a map
and wait for a surprise change in the weather.

Let's go on a date to 1997.
Turn our amps and hearts up to eleven.

I wanna tie a flannel around my waist and dig through your CD collection
while music videos play on TV.
They say that's what killed the radio star, you know...
And then we killed the video star,
and I guess we are all made of stars...
But the ones in our eyes have gone dim,
blinded by bad science and too many flashing lights.

I don't want a life of paint by numbers;
I want rain and I want thunder.
I want to remember what it's like to wait...

to observe...

and the rewards that come from it.

So I'm gonna give you the key to my diary,
pull my dress up over my belly button
so we can compare appendectomy scars.

and make sure we're still real.

I'm Sorry You Feel That Way
Stephen Malkmus, Andrew Falkous:
coincidence? Yes.
I'm sorry you feel that way.
We're breaking lots of shit,
like our hearts and our guitars.
I'm sorry you feel that way.

What did you let her do?
And what did it mean to you?
The irony is palpable,
you condescending bitch.
What did you let her do? Huh?


She's in the shell, she's back in hell,
she's back where she began.
It's written on the door.
We're back where we began
but it gets darker every day.
I'm sorry you feel that way.

Inaction In Action
I was at the grocery store
the other day.
The family behind me in line
was speaking Klingon.
I didn't understand
but somehow I was sure
they were talking about

This morning I realized
it was your birthday
but I didn't give
a shit.
I tried to give a shit
but you're an asshole
and an asshole is an asshole
is an asshole.

They said to be prepared
but they never said for what...
I guess they didn't
And so I fell asleep
holding my guitar
like a shotgun.

They always tell me that my heart
is in the right place.
Well I sure hope so,
cuz where else would it be?
I like it where it's at,
all filled with feelings,
in my thoracic cavity.

I called up Kurt Cobain,
it was a Wednesday,
and he came over for
Not pennyroyal tea,
that would be irony.
Or would it really?

When You Find It
Life is dumpster diving:
trying to find the good stuff...
trying to avoid sinking.

Sometimes it's slim pickings.

A sea of seamless, seemingly endless obstacles,
of séances and sendoffs.

We tread lightly, lest we lose our footing.

Love is the sought after, the useful, the satisfying:
the heavy bits stuck in place that help prevent sinking.

Love is the unexpired box of pasta on top:
the jackpot,
already wonderful but
exalted by circumstance and
fully appreciated in light of
the darkness.

If that doesn't sound pretty, it shouldn't.

The smell is always there.
Love is a clothespin for your nose.

Life is dumpster diving and
love is a weird poem written on the back of a coffee-stained city map.

It doesn't have to make sense;
you'll know what you're looking for when you find it.
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With Your Hands
Little Boy, Little Boy,
come and sit by my side.
Tell me your stories,
dig in the dirt with your hands.
     (Build me a castle.)

Helper, Helper,
come and stand behind me.
Tell me your ideas,
guide my motions with your hands.
     (Show me an example.)

Music man, music man,
come and play your song for me.
Tell me how you live your life,
make the rhythm with your hands.
     (Lay me down a beat!)

Lover, lover,
come and lie down next to me.
Warm my body with your hands,
give me a quieter place to sleep.
     (Give me a quieter place to sleep.)

Keeper, keeper,
come and watch the moon with me.
Tell me it will be okay,
wipe my teardrops with your hands.
     (Be my missing peace.)

Sailor, sailor,
come to leave me on the land.
Tell me that you're gone tonight,
wave goodbye to me with your hands.
     (Don't say a word.)

Angel, please,
come home, come home.
     (I'll leave the window open.)

Walk a cloud
Fall through
Float down into
                                     Nothing below but fire.
                                     Look up, clouds pass
                                     Not another chance to walk.
                                     Fell through,
                                     Sank down into
                                                                           Now you sleep,
                                                                           Donkey wishes,
                                                                           Magic like a cloud.
                                                                           One that breaks not.

Three Haikus About Pandas
Pandas are bears, yeah,
But so is Winnie the Pooh.
Put that in your pipe.

It’s not black and white.
Pandas are a real issue:
Read all over.

China looks okay,
If you’re into that whole thing,
Which most pandas are.

The Dance
Sexy skeleton playin' the bass
mindless mushroom without a face
withered pumpkin, dance to the drum
smoke seeps quite softly from bottles of rum

Woman plays banjo, closes an eye
clouds hurry over as rain leaves the sky
catching the raindrops, my bucket is full
I throw it aside and give in to your pull

Dance doesn't cease though the fire's burnt out
it's been way too long since the start of the drought
no one unhappy, the angels exhale
my baby is laughing though strikingly pale

Orange encompasses incoming light
man raises arms in the middle of night
moons fall like water, and piercing my hand
cold to the touch but feel hot as they brand

Windows of stained glass make no sense to me
give me your arm and write down what you see
I can't rememer, my love is asleep
the place where he lay is a secret I keep


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