I.

The man to the left of me
laughed at the first male.
One.  Two.  Three.
All stupid.

We both reach then stop.
Reach then stop.
Laughter.
Finally
I turn it to the left.

I think to myself,
it's because we're
both Capricorns.

Or men.

II.

I watch bones eat green grapes.
They are the Granny Smiths of grapes.
But this time not so sour,
Sweet.
Not sweet.
Where the hell is my receipt?

I can run down the aisles,
a fluorescent adolescent,
being too happy alone,
two yellow bags in my hands.

III.

Lately, I've been writing all my poetry
on receipts & Hallmark cards.

Lately, my vagina has been riding my bike.

And lately, I haven't been drinking.

IV.

I ask you about your daughter, and you get mad.
So you buy pomegranate yogurt.

I wish I could tell you about England, but I can't.
So I look for coffee in the road.

V.

Vonnegut wasn't a schizophrenic.  Nathaniel Hawthorne
wasn't good.  

And neither was Vonnegut.

VI.

We watch a man on the linoleum.
You think he is praying to God.
I think he is praying to the circles on the floor.


Let's get the fuck out of here, he says.