Le Jennifer is the Only Poet Who Matters 2

Before I knew poetry was a baby
Boiling in my womb that boiled
The baby God didn’t let me bear

Poetry was a mere curiosity

An angel in the guise of a motion
Of floors, all by themselves, impregnated
Me with words, now I am the only poet

I used to think who would read
All of these awful poems
About holding the wind
And considering death on the N

I am the only poet now, and I’ve learned
Those poets had no baby boiling to offer
The world. For three weeks straight
(since begun giving birth to delicious demon poems)
My panties have been caked in blood.
For three weeks now.
I am the only poet
Who can say this.

The Consumer Pleases Herself

A stale bagel with soy butter
This was my breakfast.
Funny, how sickening, the words
The food is so bland
I can actually think about 40%
Sales when I chew.

Egg salad and juniper jelly
This was my lunch.
Funny, how like electric fruit
The words tickle my nerve ends.
I bought a poster of a shirtless man
Scrubbing a Clydesdale with yellow
Sponge and the precious moon
In the background because it was almost half-off.

For dinner I will wonder if my toes
Look funny crooked and if I should have
Spent the money on slippers instead.

Drunk on Sense

When I was girl my mother screamed
Because the floors moved all by themselves
My brother played music on my teeth
The dead moved like thin disinfectant
In my momma’s big belly. The cool nights
Of girlhood are vaporous and repugnant
Like any drug feeling that lasts too long
And becomes another arena for the brain
To titter-tat and dance the spat.

A Plea to Romantic Man Poets

I was woken from life
At the age of thirty-two,
Calling forth mysterious sailors
Whose waves belong to the purple
Imagination of Keats and those romantics
Whose women of labyrinthine hair be
Lonely because their husbands disappear
They have visions, they say, they have poetry
These women reap loss in no meter
on the field of only shadows, no growth

I am no other kind of woman
Observe, for example, my blazer pocket
In which I carry my identity card
Imagine my hair, it’s like some vegetative
Growth from the purple ocean.
Your poetry makes me angry.
The voice of God belongs to me.
Whatever you write, it’s of no consequence.

Policy

Taxes, please. Taxes
And more taxes. I don’t deserve
To have. I only only deserve this
Cockananny teaspoon. Sweet French
Singer. Doomed Samaritan.
Clouds. Clouds. Everywhere are clouds.
I won’t feel connected to the world
Unless there are taxes. Taxes. Clouds and taxes.

Unfinished Poem About My Sister, Who Happens to Collect Spoons

Seems to me you dressed
Up as a woman and spent
All of your money on spoons.
Silly whore. Let’s take you
To the mercenary lounge
Where we’ll wind you up in string
And unwind you. Then you’ll fall
Into some table and knock over
Some glass ashtrays unless
We’re at the Helen Newman bowling
Alley, where the fat pink man will laugh.
Silly whore. You’re a

Wage Labor

You don’t even know where you are
You pretend to be a woman
But you’re really the grouch
Solemn, you live in a trashcan
Four miles later you’re drinking from the sponge

Is this what poverty feels like?
Why can’t I touch your pussy?
I mean, why doesn’t the earth treat us
To money
Now here’s the lamb
She works in the fields.

This Poem is Too Personal to be Published

Taste this and tell me it doesn’t
I’m as blind as the clue
Treating me horrible doesn’t
Get you any place
Unless it’s treating me horribly you want
In which case, go ahead
I think you’re onto something,
Jason

There’s No Mystery Dark Enough for Me

Trespassing is not easy when you swim
But it’s easy when the moon breaks
Concrete looks two ways not unlike
A window with serpents. I reference
The great monument. Perhaps you’ve
Heard of it. Damascus. Seal. Blindness
Let’s trespass through the mystery.
They pretend like they don’t know
Only because it seems more important.

My Brother Bought a Guitar

The clueless folksinger looks not
Unlike a dove whose wings are fine
Divine cutlery, soft and feathered.
I have never seen a folk singer
As ugly as this, who does not exist
Whose song is the constant fluttering
Of his impossible, stainless steel wings.

Le Jennifer is the Only Poet Who Matters

All poetry must come
To its end, it deserves an end
The tyrants of the contemporary scene
There is no scene, there is no contemporary
I have come bearing a very sharp
Olive branch. There are no poets
Not anymore, not now that I’ve begun
There is only room for one poet
And that is me. There is only one God
And there is no god but God
And I have followed that voice, my poems
Are even more didactic than instructions
Stop writing poetry, poet.
I am the only poet who matters.
It’s clear to you now, you were only
Playing games.