A Woman Is A Woman
And I am not a man. Nor am I a runner, but I flee
often, from everything. As a child
I wrote a request to be a mole
to some formless figure unseen, is this feeling the answer?
I forgot what I was asking. Most of the time
I find beauty to be just exhausting.
I think I could pick up smoking if I breathed
dirt, and more importantly, were blind.
I am burrowing away
from the pier
above ground,
having missed the boat for someone else
that never came.
I try to tango by myself to participate
in this dance of happenstance
but I lost control of my feet
waltzing, oh, I don’t know,
the last time I’ve seen my gym shoes
maybe in the school cafeteria, signed,
Kid Blank, age thirteen.
Please, please, I call out
in vain, let me be a heartless beast
(my mother used my heart as meat
in my brownbag lunch with bitter cheese)
without une femme — I’d rather that than stand
in the kitchen, straining away
all excess to reveal “nothing” spelled in spaghetti.
__________b. alexander is currently living in the bay area of california. he has previously appeared in the literary magazine of west valley college, voices. he is willing to admit that he is not at all a self-made man, but rather an unmade man. he is obsessed with the cosmos and the avant-garde. you can check out his blog at lazlazlaz.tumblr.com.