impulse $$$

it was a sad summer

their names were vermilion beard, sad mouth

it was a sad fall

their names were aubergine hair, squishface, eyelashes

it was a sad winter 

their names were eyes

it was a sad spring

their names were hipbones, limbs, flesh

a bag of lemons is a bad sign is a bad notion idea indication

"if someone takes your idea it isn't really yours"-  go to work

"if I am the only one alive I am all of the life"-  go write in your diary

do you remember when we ate mushrooms

and that kanye song, all of the lights 

showed up

and I fell into your sob shoulder

and you asked me to tell you why 

and I said, it just reminds me that everything is as bad as it seems

did you know that kim kardashian has ballooned to 220 lbs since getting pregnant?

that she has ballooned to such proportions that kanye will no longer speak to her?

I read this off a magazine at kmart two weeks ago

when Nickey & I were buying toilet paper

and she desperately wanted a pop tart

so we were looking among the magazine racks for impulse buys

we thought pop tarts would make a pretty good one of those

to do

this poem's called, I bought a bag of lemons

this poem's called, I just bought four bananas

this poem's called, I bought the unripest ones

this poem's called, fuck it, I don't care

this poem's called, yeah right, I use all of the rooms in the house as a hankie

this poem's called, I'm being forcefed

this poem's called, someone hook me up to an IV

this poem's called, I just need those nutrients

this poem's called, when donuts come up, I think you're talking about me

this poem's called, I will get you or I will get you back

this poem's called, I finally swallowed my brain

this poem's called, my molars are for molling

this poem's called, ∞: break my heart

this poem's called, you can have it all

this poem's called, tears are in your eyes

this poem's called, we listened to yo la tango, remember them?

this poem's called, wait & brood

this poem's called, the worst number is 23 because of the following reasons

this poem's called, I can have it all

this poem's called, oops, I did it again
this poem's called, I'm in the break room
this poem's called, coke 0

this poem's called, I'm a variable

this poem's called, I'm running, I'm running faster than ever

lemon bag

When I was last there,
inside sad cave london room, with the rooks on the roofs
Why isn't rooves the plural, by the way?

When I was locked in that room I started drawing with a tiny paintbrush & india ink
pictures of the Olsen twins
and I'd find their photos
attached to the livejournals
of anorexic teens.
this is where I learned the term
 thinspiration
(an expression not found by the iPad)
and I looked at selfies of knobby spines
and clavicles sharp enough to cut cheese
and I read advice from pro-anas
to struggling anas-in-waiting
about how to get skinny
and someone wrote about drinking lemonade made with maple syrup
and I thought, damn that sounds good.


When I couldn't eat I knew I had to put something in me
my body was 21 years old
it was young
but it was a bag
there was nothing left in it
I was shriveling away
And I remember looking into the mirror once while I took a shower
because my housemate thought it sexy to watch oneself bathe
and I had grown so little
like a teen
like a teen with a blog
who could advise other teens
on how to let their skin tighten around their sad little bones
But I didn't like the girl I saw, that shivering little teen
because she wore her devastations like foodservice film
clinging to whatever was leftovers

So I drank that lemonade, like what else could I do? I drank it every day, all day. I drank it so much my urine was lemons, my shit was maple blood. Tapped, juiced. And my organs drifted out through the  holes left,
and I had all of the energy
of all of the suns,
and I was thinspiring the universe to bony tears