SLAM-BANG is a synonym for violent. Thanks internet dictionary.

by heytherewildflower

Wrote the poem posted below sometime in June of this summer. Did a bit of editing this morning…plan to do more. I want to take a bit to see how this version sits.


a bird chirps at midnight 
its got jetlag or it’s time warped.
artificial melon yellow street lamp
state of day light in shades of ochre.

together we share the sleeplessness like a Romantic dinner split
onto two plates.
 double dutch insomnia. the rose tossed between us.
lovers quarreling for possession of
the dream.

who is this? what makes a face?
who makes the face? who makes the bird?
scrap heads, heads made of scraps of things, stick figures
and paper dolls made for a tiny stage, the coffee table
littered with crude cutouts and glitter. our figurative selves
decorated slap shod as a second thought.

monkey smoking a cigarette. ghost with a beak. 
bat with owl eyes.
cat with rabbit ears
 and my shadow’s negative is pure white 
like a snarl.

hey there wildflower,
we’re stuck with each other. and we only do nothing but stare. we could dance. a jig of alternating furtive
 and aloof
glances. fraught with meaning. fraught
with anti-flirtation gravity.

those blood shot brown eyes of yours
from the miscellaneous face.
 drinking, i drank
of our eyes. the bare contact.

im drunk
until you blink
and cease to exist.

i dreamt my death shone with crescent scars, thorns of the roses,
unshaven face it hurts to kiss. your face burns me. literally.

im building winter
with scrap paper and sequin snowflakes. 
i draw myself in the center of the gentle storm.
 i burn my face out of the picture
with the cherry of a smoking cigarette
and my face is the snarl of negative space, 
a ferocious hole.

peep hole for an eye.
hey there, wildflower,


child with head set on fire, hair burning in the wind, sick dandelion posturing in the first hoarfrost of fall.

i dreamt your death was quick but painful, i dreamed we endured.

and because its sunday and im somewhat grumpy and slept for only an hour last night– SOMETHING THAT PISSES ME OFF: When people  say “making poems” instead of “writing poems.” I went to a poetry reading last week… this one was a bunch of old and distinguished wrinkly rich folks and myself…and this one lady asked the poet reader of the evening….”SO HAVE YOU BEEN MAKING POEMS LATELY?”

It bothers me because it makes sense. But its a phraseology for those IN THE KNOW of the poetry community jargonismdumbassisms. This super pisses me off because its an isolation mechanism. Don’t you think the mere idea of poetry and poems and poetry readings and poetry people rubs most people the wrong way (FOR GOOD REASON) enough without you making excuses to make the conversation sound so stuffy and artisanal, lady? DON’T YOU? URGH.

The truth is, it bothers me that “making poems” makes sense. I wish it were as dumb as it sounds. But I really couldn’t argue this one from any angle other than PRETENTIOUS ISOLATION MECHANISM, BITCH.

oh well.

In other other news, other than barely sleeping at all, last night was kind of awesome because I ran into this old man who found me interesting I guess so he gave me a free astrology chart reading. In the  course of our conversation I discovered that he is a former Buddhist monk, a former owner of a Berkley based astrology  bookstore and a current music producer and an  APPOINTMENT ONLY astrologist. Also I am destined to be a healer, apparently. God I love people.