cosmic 25. i'm writing a book.

welcoming my 25th year on Earth like love-happy fools

i'm writing a book because i'm getting no younger.
i'm writing a book that howls like hunger,
and seeps like honey
into a steam of memories--
this past year's spicy chai.

i'm writing a book with frozen fingers.
i'm writing a book instead of eating dinner.
i'm writing a book from scratch--
hilltops, laptops, blacktops, no cash.

i'm writing a book like a tiger: rip, rip, roar.
i'm writing a book like a player: shhhh... not too much.
i'm writing a book like nina simone: moan, moan, moan.
i'm writing a book like a mother: suck 'em dry, baby.

i'm writing a book because i'm not having sex.
i'm writing a book about a fuck-ton of sex.
i'm writing a book with the hope that we have sex.
then at worst, i could write another book about it.

i'm writing a book like a puzzle--
pieces spread on sandy beach house tiles
and nothing else to do 
but fall back in love with quiet.

i'm writing a book with the top down in the winter.
i'm writing a book--tweezing it out like a splinter.
i'm writing a book and i'm dying my hair red.
strength, fire, destruction. enough said.

i'm writing a book because the stars are falling,
the words are hollering,
and i'm hungry for something
that terrifies me.
like you.