No Promises

I. I Crocheted a Duck for You

I have become increasingly paranoid of edits in pornography and the

trucks that serve ginger lemonade at christenings. Red hair is only red

in derealization nightmares. I tipped $20 on a memory and wasn’t sure

if I should feel good or bad. Automatons make music now but I still

make things wet. There’s a leaf in your thumb that won’t let you speak

in idioms. NASA once told me about Czech women; Did you know

they sing in rounds?

II. What happened to separating the art from the artist?

Do you ever look at someone and see only their blue outlines. The

colors Microsoft would want us to see. I asked a friend if he would

ever kill himself: “No promises after 90” he said. There is a god, but

they didn’t put a bathroom in this club. Just oak trees and fuzzy socks.

“I’m a good person” I say to the bouncer. “Yeah but did you direct

Annie Hall?”

III. Mother’s Day

I saw the stars today and they said “You need to stop creating a

dialogue to fill your poems.” I can’t help but be afraid of French

anymore. How many guitar songs must one learn before they’re

allowed to perform in Washington Square? Sometimes rubbing grass

on your pants doesn’t make you finish but it prepares an amazing

casserole. Sometimes half of your friend group smokes and the other

half vapes. What’s your preferred form of immolation?

IV. Eileen is an Ex-Wife and Must Stay That Way

Why does every Popeye’s look like it was made in a studio? I locked

myself out today and thought “I am holy alone in this world.” I often

think god speaks through me. I’ve been telling Natalie that: “If I

mistakenly say Serbia is in Russia, it’s because god willed it so;” or

“god said you should lose a few if you’re going to continue to put

your weight against the door.” She just smiles and says “laughtrack.

loudguffaw.men&women.462837.wav.”

V. Reasons I Love Loving

When I’m in love, I sit backwards on my bed. I’m sitting here now. I

wear clothes that make people look at my breasts. I stop opening up

about my father and start opening up about my mother. I put coffee in

my brownies. I never choose the restaurant. I obsess over the corners of

my fingernails. I only wear deodorant after 4pm. I speak haphazardly,

like a poet on Instagram. I tell everyone how much I love them.

Everyone else. I kiss them with words, I tell them I’ll write books about

them. For you, I don’t write love poems; I write fan mail.