Because I've missed too many poetry slams this summer, and Jenny Lewis has a new album coming out, and I'm surrounded by bills on my bed, and right now, "Plane Crash in C" seems to have been written for me and about me, the only thing to do, really, is post another silly poem I wrote.
I have a bouquet of peacock feathers
in my room that's again my room,
just not quite the way
it was before. You see?
The ceiling fan keeps knocking
the feathers around, but one
stands, defiant, in the same place
And the green of the walls blends
into the green of my yoga mat
and the green of the towel
stacked clumsily next to my clothes
tossed carelessly but
on the floor of the room
that is my room that was
my room that holds the bouquet
of peacock feathers
that are so goddammed beautiful
and for the life of me
I can't explain why.