What if i recklessly wrote three or four poems a day
and sent them into the void of cyberspace
where anyone from my little brother to my exes could read them
until i was picked clean like the carcass
of the rotisserie chicken my aunt sent me home with last weekend
and what if i then found spiderwebs in my pantry
and boiled a bone broth with it – would i be all
water with shiny oil spills fed to the masses
at the homeless shelter i almost wound up at

or should i instead demand a little privacy
when the car of my body stops short and my brain
reels back and jolts violently against my skull
until i am irrevocably damaged? should i put on display
for the purpose of a science i dont understand
the spots where i am worn thin and short circuiting

or should i…

Post-Partum Depression

There’s been no birth but I am suffering from post-partum depression.
Do you know the feeling? Something’s been taken away.
I am a passéiste; I do not have my eye on the next thing.

In the garden, the Delphiniums are in flower.
We’ll do everything together; we’ll change the world.
We’ll abolish all private property except my house.

I said in my last poem that everyone should eat popcorn, but that’s not
because I like it. I just like the sound of my voice. My fantasy is to live
in a Faulkner novel but that doesn’t mean I refuse to wear underpants.

I wanna get me an emotional-support peacock and move into Flannery
O’Connor’s old house. They prefer moist, cool summers and do not fare well
in hot, dry weather. One does still hear dreadful stories.

The greatest birthday present I ever got was a potted tomato plant…