On Discussing Sigmund Freud in Seventh Grade English Class.

I am ignored. I am moved.
People ignore me like broken rivers,
Dreams that are shattered and torn,
Dreams that are shattered and torn.
I cannot speak to you right now.

You call to me from the mist of the deep,
The deep dark that deserts me
In the midst of chaos.
I am moved.
I walk across empty streets all in the name of
Beer,
All in the name of an ancient language
That was spoken by the gods.

I am a language.
My mood is a happy one,
I am filled to the brim with pickle brine.
I wrote a note to myself in seventh grade,
When the boy, Matt, would not appreciate
The teacher and spoke out of turn.

Wheels turn. Everything turns.
I am ignored. I am moved.
Nothing moves.

Radio Waves.

Nouns bounce off of broken radios.
My mind goes on like a microwave.

I am not Einstein. I am not awake,
I am not feeling-many people think
Of me as a blade of grass. As a piece
Of cheese. Something to be eaten,
And spit out.

The grapes stick out of the vine. (Whine.)
Many people crowd the alleyways,
Sticks and stones break through differences
And crossroads disappoint me.

I never remember what I say after a hard
Day’s work. I never remember everything
When I go to the grocery store.
Tomorrow is another day. I troop up
And down the stairs like a mother
Hen waiting to be fed. Waiting for
Someone.
My husband angers the gods.