By Virginia Rand

May 16th 2017

Bones on the paper
and stuck up on my wall
around the corner from my knees
the scars are still there. 
I am sick of the laser beams,
the finicky leaves and bison
driving to Venice Beach homeless. 
This gym is wearing
my shoulder with tan lines
and indented skin. 
It pains the needle
and the doctor's teeth. 
I stain my cigarettes
and it all falls apart. 
It rains harder in Louisiana
than on my passport. 
I have never been up that dirt road
thrown up into outer space
echoes the damn pyramid, 
dirty carpet on the ceiling. 
I scorn that black hair and
the break wrinkles my heart. 
The engine broke down again
and we could be home by now. 
You could be “home” by now. 
The lightening bolt
stains denim in multi colors. 
Wife beaters and ink and little pots of
the loyalty cards where homeless, 
babbling wanders
upstairs into the rainbow room. 
Secretary for 6 months
and poker chips hurt my palms
and the ice on the counter. 
I smell the woods and my feet hurt. 
Snow doesn't bury everything
on boxes, 
on hardwood floors. 
Where is my mother
and the smell of Poison? 
Those boys wanted to spew
cruelties to rile these new limbs.
I fade into the wall until
sounds of footstep wake me. 
The ghost is back. 
The fairy lights where I screamed
in that face driving up the valley
stuck in potholes and panicking
in another unknown town. 
I never met the spiders.