Writing Poetry Is A State

I Began To Forget Myself In The Middle Of Sentences.

What’s With Her?” Says The Painter. “she’s Mad Because She’s A Woman,” Jon Says. This Is Something I Haven’t Heard For Years, Not Since High School. Once It Was A Shaming Thing To Say, And Crushing To Have It Said About You, By A Man. It Implied Oddness, Deformity, Sexual Malfunction. I Go To The Living Room Doorway. “i’m Not Mad Because I’m A Woman,” I Say. “i’m Mad Because You’re An Asshole.

Show Me A Character Totally Without Anxieties And I Will Show You A Boring Book.

In My Dreams Of This City I Am Always Lost.

Nature Is To Zoos As God Is To Churches.