poem: April Is The Cruelest Month

bite off neurosis, This Time I’ll Make It — standing
at the front of the check-out line, lime kombucha mozzarella
some kinda Raw, this Time i’ll make it — keeping time
inside yourself, inside your chest, counting ribs
the boss is not your mother she is not your father she is
not coming to get you in the divorce: why r u worried if taking
three hours off for [appointment] will
upset her? This Time, you’ll explain, you’ll put in for the
job, You’ll. rewriting my cover letter with my back
to the wall neck under red-light saying I am necked-down
almost naked, not quite, this time — what is the space between
the fault of the system (evil, modern) and the lapsed
potential, the selfishness, inability to act, fucked-up-ness of
ur own life (pathetic, pathetic, evil, modern): i made it
back in October, flew out to Seattle, a whole year of Doing Things
and i was skinny and still living high off that. first poem in a while
first orgasm, this is the most i’ll show online. now a year of, not even
waiting, just doing nothing — Im gonna argue (dialectic) waiting can be
feminine and good, nothing keeps me rotten a large foot or a
man’s fist in my mouth, anxious over everything! boss told me
go to work-covered therapy, sadly pathologization is against
my belief system but maybe I can — new house new job
something something, I dreaded being pregnant and having no
time to read but now I am here and it is
much worse.