No offense but why do boys care so much about consciousness?

& it always blows them
away—out of water &
into air, mouths wide
open & wet like
dripping—a penis

sprouts out the back of my
head so i jerk it lovingly
& with both
hands. that’s the way
it is—boys become
and girls are. men have
women and women have

hands. you ask
so i tell you it's called
edging but you pretend
not to hear. later, on the
roof, you ask more questions

with no answers. someday
you catch free will,
look it in the mouth—find
all teeth and gums—
no lips, no tongue to kiss with.

My Favorite Kind of Poem is the Kind of Poem Where the Poet Apologizes at the End for Writing the Poem

things occur
and you do

your best not to
let them

but to listen
through dust

in the light
from the window

in your room. the
sun through

the blinds. blinds
on the monitor. a document

on the monitor,
seen through the slotted

imprint of light
from the sun.

outside
the window,

the light on the
trees

by the lake. the sun
on dark trees.

the quiet lake.
the trees.

behind the trees,
a poem.

within the poem,
flowers and trees

in fields and
on mountains but

i decide
the poem is

about me (i have
been told i have

narcissistic tendencies).
i laugh. i rob the poem

at knife
point, gathering

what cumulus clouds and
woodland creatures

i can carry in
my hands and arms

all the way back
to my own poem.

i decorate my poem
with the stolen

precious things,
and i call it

collage and smile
and hang it

on the fridge next
to a magnet from The

New Yorker, which
i also stole (don’t remember

where from).
i lick the poem

with my wet mouth
so no one else can have it

like the last (the
coveted) slice of pizza,

but you don’t give a fuck
about dying

so you eat it (me)
anyway.

you write me into
a Google Doc

where i can live out
the rest of

my days,
play out

your family dramas
as heartless woman

with bangs
spreading her fat ass

and thighs for the
horizon, not

outshining the sun
but trying

to make sense
of words and pictures walking out

of your own wet mouth
and into this Document

i call home. at the sight
of your vivid imagery

i become
confused (overwhelmed)

and at last i grab
at my fantasy breasts

and wail i'm sorry
it's just that

this is a bad poem