the non-traditional,
what do i lack? perhaps a
red solo cup here and there but
nothing more serious than this;
perhaps a group of friends
that lasts four years and longer,
but nothing more than this.
the return, break-taker,
breath-taker lacking in ambition
i suppose, but who is to say
labels fit anyone at all; the truth
is in the grades, the desperate
two-semester marathon for an
entire grade point to average in.
the transfer, maybe twice,
what do i become? a time waster, a
perpetual dropout, home reliant
washed up washed out detritus
medical billing assistant,
and nothing more than this will
you see in me. i am deserted, i am
led astray by the system and i
am the only one standing in my corner,
but i'm throwing punches, and
you're taking them. non-traditional,
take your stereotype, add a pinch
of irony and a dash of determination
bake at 350 for five semesters
and wait for the rising explosion.

i am war, i am rage, i am
blood that pulses pulses pulses
and finally empties itself
into rivulets, streaming, screaming
down throats and fingertips.
i am hate, i am pain, i am
the glory of releasing all of this
into other people's brains,
i am the narcissistic pleasure
of dim and dull and blunt.
i am fate, i am harsh, i am
inevitable and eventual and
brother to chaos, the mess you make
in trying to keep your religion
safe from the unsaved.
i am sharp, i am cold, i am
the icicle that plunges off
the drop, the pebble that echoes
down the side of the canyon
where you can't see the bottom.
i am strong, i am gross, i am
foolish enough to ignore others
in their similar searchings
and angry enough to resent
others treading my path.
i am gore, i am stark, i am
death roaming pastures golden
with dead weeds and not-quite-clean
bones and blood that has leached
all life from the soil.

i am love, i am sex, i am
the sun rising through broken
slats in your window shades
so that you can trace me against
someone else's warm skin.
i am lust, i am depth, i am
the deepest calm in your heart
even while you struggle,
the curve of the earth underneath
your wrecked apartment building.
i am sweet, i am hard, i am
made all of granite tenderness
and shining like a diamond
out from the crack in the sidewalk
where all look but no one sees.
i am ancient, i am fresh, i am
the son of chaos and the daughter
of war and the androgynous wet dream
of human life, the offspring
of everything you have tried to be.
i am dove, i am owl, i am
a hawk with fierce talons rushing
to defend my young, never at a loss
and always more than seven miles
away from the finish line.
i am dark, i am open, i am
psyche yearning to be unburdened
from hatred, the drop of searing
mistrust that shakes the best
of love's intentions.
i am love, i am sex, i am
the best of each individual
expressed through the joys of another,
i am the nightmare of never
wandering alone again.

i want to draw wedding dresses,
draw pounds and pounds of white taffeta
(imagine how much netting it takes to weigh a pound!)
i want to traipse delicately
down the imaginative aisle, shall i have
roses or lillies or daffodils my bridesmaids can pick for me
in the fields where i am married barefoot--
i want to rub the earth against my skin.
all drenched in clean and white, i want to
roll in mud and walk away stark bright
and get into my horse-drawn carriage.
in this carriage my new husband takes my hand,
calls me Mrs. His Name, takes my roses lillies daffodils
and lays them aside (replaced with champagne,
i will drink, i will drink and be full with his cup.)
i am the virgin, dressed in white, who
waltzes on the dancefloor surrounded by cousins,
who survived stained shadows and wood pews and
heads that turn to judge, then murmur.
i am the ancient whore who carries
bubbles in my corset, bubbles full of intoxication
that burst when loved or wanted, i,
i am the virgin ready to be broken
who waits for time to carry my name away.

when it's tough, you're strong,
flexing egotistical brawn against the world,
the belief that keeps brick walls
behind closed doors, keeps burning crosses
from building themselves on your lawn--
when it's tough, you're stone,
formed over thousands of years of churning:
hard as granite, old as the pacific rim,
yet flaking off in minute minutes
like sandstone, grit in someone's teeth.
when it's easy you must
relearn to live, learn to relive
the good you have, to trust in sunshine
and other people's smiles; to toss
and catch the same good mood.
when it's easy you turn
to lie on your back on grassy lawns
and bathe in stars that don't shine when
your mouth is blurred with slime--
you can breathe mouth open lungs wide now.
and when it gets hard again
you've rolled on beaches, collected sand,
gathered grit to condense into
rock hard ego, granite confidence,
unwavering and unshielded memories
of what it was like when your lungs were full.

stuck sober, singing silence into scrapes sewn shut
with molting memories; migraines moving emotions
round your rotting brain, rosy restless flesh
that can't keep quiet. careless kestrals keening
for flooded fields and feckless flights.
sulking sky is single-minded: spitting serious
drops onto dangerously dingy days.
peace in pieces, precariously perched; posed
over orange orchids, oxidizing octagonal
hopes into hassles, haranguing and hemming in.
effortless energy ekes electricity,
raking in righteously rigorous ramifications
to timorously table tough times and tithes.