poem.
your friends are not alone
you're fucked up in the head
you are dead.
Monday
i want to be me when i grow up.
i want to be an artist when i grow up, the kind that shows the brilliant world to the blind.i want to be a mailman when i grow up, the kind that delivers your mail on time.
and i want to be a helper when i grow up, the kind that will feed all the hunger in the world.
i want to be a mother when i grow up, the kind that has a bond that will last forever.
i want to be me when i grow up, the person who will always be inside my human body till the day i die.
what you aren't, perfect.
Perfect like the old man down the road.
Perfect like the fork in the road.
Perfect like the eyeballs staring at me right now.
Perfect like the best day ever.
Perfect like the meadow of us
and the meadow of you.
Perfect like roses with thorns.
And you would have been perfect like he was.
Perfect like the ice cream shop down the road.
Perfect like the landscape outside my window in Brooklyn.
Perfect like I thought you were when you said you loved me.
Perfect, is what you aren’t.
Wednesday
my friend anne that I work with brought in this super old book from her childhood.. she's cleaning her house out and moving down South soon.. so she's going through all the old shit in her basement.. and this book was in the mess. she brought it in today and we read it and adored all the artwork, this was my favorite page... i want the book if she tries to get rid of it i am asking her for it.
Don't fuck with my old man, Jones.
Old man Jones
Has one eye
Wishes to
die.
His family
left him
His dog
kept him
He has no
home.
Trash bags
make his windows
Boxes make
an abode.
His laces
don’t match.
But I guess
that is the least of his worries.
Old man Jones is the nicest old man I know.
His town is
Manchester.
The bus
stop on Main is his home.
Don’t fuck
with Old Man Jones.
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