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"PROPERTY OF GOODWILL"
I have been woven through time,
on the hands of faith
picking me
up with the
knitting needles of promise.
Turning me into
sweaters
and scarves.
You use me. You say I'm not
cool enough, or
hot enough.
You violate me,
squirming inside of me,
making me
dirty, ashamed...worn out.
My (mo)hair is tangled,
snagged and
tattered.
I'm not what I used to be.
You say I'm not
beautiful,
or attractive....
and you toss me out with the
faith
that I will find something better.
Labeling me property of
GoodWill.
© Jennifer Warren 2002
"SORROW BRINGS ME OLD DOG BONES"
My house is mobile
and has lived on the same
street for sixteen
years.
sorrow brings me
old dog bones;
we peek in the cracked
fence
to swimming pools in
weeds and thistle-flowers.
And I wish
I could swim
but not float like the
ghost in the daisies
but the
glibbery-flibbery
hiccup bird is watching
from the wire and
full
moons and half moons
and Jupiter smiles with
no teeth and I
just wave
as if to say hello.
© Jennifer Warren 2002
"CUTTING STRAWS"
Clipper of straws, weepy sleepy eyes
your angled scissors
cut
Back turned, poker face you try and hide the lies
cuz dreams are
bad when eyes are shut.
Snowy Heaven! White whore! Forbidding slut!
amphetemine fever
high
but promises break when straws are cut,
heartbroken sigh.
Dusty mirrors licked clean with tongues dry
I try to see the
light
when I look at you I want to die
and all is dark in sight
And can I be the only one who dances lovely bright?
You have so much
to give.
Melted baggie bathed in liquid amphetemine light
I look at
you and live.
© Jennifer Warren 2002
"REVELATIONS ON THE BATHROOM
FLOOR"
Revelations on the bathroom floor
holding back
wild urges to relapse
into a world of glamour where whoresare dressed
with nothing
and wear their addiction proudly
while ribs become
prisons and hearts beg release.
Clawing, scratching ruby trails
through
veins and down arms while needles are
forever dropping on
the tiles
of the bathroom floor.
© Jennifer Warren 2002
"IT ONLY RAINS ON SUNDAYS"
It only rains on Sundays
when I see your guitar
silent strings
hanging
like dangling penises.
You have laid your blue suede
shoes
to rest and live in Utah
where the Mormons graze,
their
canned foods glittering
like golden teeth in a basement
that smells
like tree sap
where a bit of bailing twine
loops around a beam and I
hang
.......a bit like Jesus
© Jennifer Warren 2002 | 