If I could play the violin
I would’ve left a long time ago.
Splinter me, kindly and
save the sweet parts for tomorrow
in your secret places, string alleys.
If I said this place was purple
would I be wrong?
Something else would be better
but the mauve is fervent
like shaving cream around a drain.
Caffeinated stars and rolled rivers—
I won’t miss the way they keep me up
on nights that I need sleep.
Crumbly mess, this place has left me as
the kind of collage that isn’t art.
My ways are tangled and
those Hollywood women
are touchy-feely silk worms.
I am running toward their webs
and hoping to stick.
Strawberry blonde, violin fairy,
talk of this town—
You’re gonna be somebody.