[*label maker*]

the label maker in my hand I attacked the fridge.
sour cream: bad
apple: good
water: good
cheese: bad
diet coke: bad but good
yogurt: I’ll get back to you on that one

I spread to the sink. taptaptap print.
sink: clean me
tap: don’t drink from me
coffee cup: happy mornings
tea bag: one use only

the hallway said walk on me
my doorway said knock please
the television screams distraction
billy Collins and rilke stacked together say uh-huh

this labeling is getting out of hand.

on the balcony I put ‘mosquitoes stay away!’
then again in french
and creole, so the mosquitoes understand
anna’s door says ‘roommate’ and ‘hellohello!’ and ‘I love you’ just for reaffirmation
my flip flop says go to the beach
the toothbrush says I’m Lonely

my shoulder heavy/ my fingers stretch/ my forehead YES AND THEN>?
the words aren’t coming quick enough so
on the bathtub I just put brackets [[[[]]]]]] and on the mirror a percentage sign%

my cell phone says briiiiiiingggg which can be momentarily confusing
car says kitchen table; kitchen table says car; cartchen table says the toaster

alarm clock: Wednesday
candle: Martha
picture frame: I have a right to a trial!

anna comes home and wonders why all the popsicles say Take That.
maybe she won’t notice the quote marks on my earlobes.

bath water

the bath water is black and
my knee is bloody like a
little boy fresh off his bicycle
another failed adventure

[iamnotsleepinganymorewithmenwhohavegirlfriends]

his friend (the cute one)
tried to kiss me on the beach
he asked
what is the difference between French and American men?
I told him that
the lies sound prettier
in French.

valentine

everyone knows that the opposite of love is indifference.
last year it was my philosopher lover, and how he drove me crazycrazycrazy; wanting his kisses and wanting his want. now its Raphael, the Parisian masseuse, and he’s got a girl (wants a little on the side). he’s got ten years on me – his ten years on me [just call me miss midlife crisis] he pretends his friends don’t know but he parades me in front of them, right up the stairs.

I tell him I need a massage therapist; I have a hurting in my heart, to which he just kisses my forehead and says ‘tu mélange tout.’ but I’m not mixed up, I know exactly where this is going- straight to hell in a handbasket as the southern girl in me would say.

les étoiles sur mon nez

we

can watch the southern stars and you

can count them

(my freckles too)