Hysterical and Useless

My name is Maggie. I am a magpie.

Why Bukowski was an Idiot

"I want to go away
where no one can find me,
no one will know me.”

Say it like a pioneer,
a true rebel.

And tell me to 
“Shut up.”
Expand upon why I should
“Go to Hell.”

Your knives, you insist
are only metaphorical. 

Why, then, I might ask,
have I been bleeding 
since the day I met you?

Say it like a pioneer,
a true rebel.

And die just like another
bigot.
Rot just like another corpse.

The earth does not care
where you want to go.
It will find you,
and it will know you.

we

i grow exhausted

of we.

we are going here.”

we are doing this.”

we are married.”

person of interest:

the one you speak of—

     apparently your conjoined twin,

          or imaginary friend—

is not present.

perhaps you have developed

telepathy with your lover, but

you are not a we.

you are a you.

this is a very significant fact.

observe the elderly man:

how he clutches the urn of his recently

departed wife.

(as if he requires a

surgery

     to separate his torso from hers.)

it baffles me,

how do you not possess

this very mortal fear

and thus construct the armor

(with grammar, with visible separation, with logic)

to remain autonomous?