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No more poetry—

all this creative nonsense

makes me want to break shit.

Roark in the stone quarry

Dominique, the jackhammer

on her fireplace hearth

the open window

her father listens in

secretly enjoying

the sound of his daughter’s moans

crying over self             abandon—

wreck me

beat me

I crave your attention

like a sheep

a woman

defeated—I’ve lost

the theme on purpose

I’m sick of sticking to the single stream.

Why do I care if you misunderstand me?

I’m an asshole

and you’re a dick—

it became this thing with him

where he stopped asking permission.

I was a wrench

never saying no

because it might hurt him—

do you know

why you cannot come

to my back door?

The screen was busted out

long before I met you

caressed you longing

that you might read my mind

and hold me a little more—

I don’t care what God does.

I am not Him.

Punctuation is litter—

I like it.

I toss cigarettes, lit

out the window—

fuck the fire ban

hazard

warning—this other knockoff

Jim Morrison thinks I want him

like a cat in heat,

some such masculine bullshit—

take your gunpowder

and semen

and shove it

where the sun dies.

I am sick of lying beggars

who try too hard

and ask me twice for change—

I will still say no.

I want to put my head

through the cement

in Roark’s bedroom.

I am her, laughing at myself

my position within this

perceived world of dominance

men                        and churches

monuments            to phallacy—

I want to wrecking ball

the halls of Congress

poetic terrorism

in Boulder alleys

where trust fund kids

graffiti shitty replicas

of gang tags—

how much did those kicks cost

and do you know why

you throw them over the power lines?

You will never kill anyone.