sometimes i feel like my poetry is going dry:
cracked july creek dry like when the rain goes static & stubborn,
& the frogs turn into stones/pressed flowers. 

i get melodramatic will i ever write a good poem again

words become gnats in my mouth-- 
i swallow because that's what you're supposed to do.  

stick postage stamps to my tongue
& let a eagle come to eat it out everyday at
high noon like prometheus's liver

it grows back of course

i've been coming up with words that the F
for sex on my license could stand for  

i don't want to change it mostly because i'm
stubborn & my alliances will always be with
the F in me

that's what i've been saying at least

this is me filling up a plastic bucket
from the spigot & dumping it on the parched steam basin

tadpoles turned to apostrophes in the dirt 
they come back alive only this time
instead of legs they grow feather wings &
turn into eagles  

i wish i didn't feel the need explain everything

F for Fight
for Flood for mud & the blood 
i keep to myself

if i could bleed again one more time
i think i might 

if i could make a barter with god
(or is it Zeus now?)
that on the second week of the month
i would bleed like i used to, like a Flow
of clay

in my driver's license photo 
i have my eye browns colored
in with a water-proof black eye liner pen
from CVS

i think of them like leeches, wriggling 
off my face

this isn't a good poem 

she's pretty you know? really pretty
does anyone ever tell her she's pretty?
all alone in front of a blue screen
at the DMV

& the rest of the place fades away
it's just her there 

the flowers on her head are actually real now--
they waited so long in this photo that they
converted their plastic petals into plant cells

checked out library books & tutored
each other in photosynthesis 

that's how i learned sex ed anyway 

stone-grey is the color of the dress
she's wearing & it hardens into statue when 
she's not careful-- this still happens to me now
when F stands for Fugitive 
for Figment for love 
spanned nano-seconds across the room 

stands for Furrow: the long trench of
dirt dug in her scalp where the rose bush seeds go

stands for Forget-me-not-s which are actually
tiny blue flowers

none of this will grow, there's no water

a bucket stands for Forest-fire

she's too pretty for you, 5 foot 2
you don't stand a chance