RUN ON

I.

Mom brought back El Jimador tequila and cedar from Mexico

I drank some

I peed a lot

never can compute that math

burned the wood

sunk a stone in my kidney

wrote a letter to the devil

punched his face with my language

asked him what’s so unlovable about me

he wrote back, said

     love is a liar

     I was adopted

     I was aborted

     after the Renaissance

     before the Holocaust

     close to ghost

     far from Holy

     seriously slacking in the sex department

     yet satisfied.

II.

Why didn’t anyone tell me

that vaginas are like small towns

really only good for passing through

in the middle of the night

when no one’s looking

while you’re barely awake at the wheel

trying to get to the casino

pining to bet all your intimacy

on thirteen black

unafraid to lose it all

walking out in the morning wondering

who didn’t take the keys away from you

before you left?

III.

I’m wearing my best Fendi stilettos tonight

Sunset Boulevard is a fine mixture of narcissism and fear

I could mix a cocktail with its breath that could kill your mom

I hope she’s not already dead

     That would make this poem awkward

     It doesn’t want to be awkward on the first date

     Who does?

you drank Maker’s with out me somewhere tonight

which is anywhere I’d rather be than here

Hollyweird

at the valet

waiting twenty minutes for my car

overhearing three girls talk about their pubic cuts

how much their boyfriends like it

     wondering if when he kissed me

     did I taste like wasted time

I’m gonna get in my car and write an epic piece. Call it:

“It’s Hard to Face Your Problems When the Problem is Your Face”

     Insert me spitting

     here

I know where petals go when they die.