Brandi Homan is the author of Hard Reds (Shearsman Books, 2008), and Two Kinds of Arson, a chapbook from dancing girl press. She is editor-in-chief of Switchback Books.
Poem in Which I Am My Own Porn Star
Most days I just want to live
in a Crate & Barrel catalog.
I can't stop watching Law & Order.
to absorb it. The free daily
calls this recycling program "ineffective."
You said erection and I felt health class,
CPR dummy. You took the free condoms.
I'm Artificial Annie.
There's no lifeguard on duty.
Dear High School Reunion.
Dear Pedestal Effect--
I spend a lot of time trying
to increase the space between my pinky
toe and the rest of my foot.
I am my own alien,
my own porn star.
Spectacular, stunted.
What is Occam's razor?
The best thing about a sandwich
is not the pickle next to it.
I am damaged but still quite good.
Explaining Poetry on a First Date
Is like telling the Prom King why I'm in Chess Club
but still want the corsage, the one with the tiny basketball.
Why I can name every Tri-state poet, but don't know local DJs.
A Pilot pen makes me happier than any red satin
dress with polyester loofah sleeves. All my friends
carry Moleskines. One scrawls homophones on her hand,
another taped a pencil to his headboard. We collect epigraphs,
read out loud in empty rooms. There's a library in my bed.
How do you explain wanting to die or marry yourself?
That success isn't a matching loveseat or the Whitesnake video?
I don't want to get my picture taken and leave the dance early
because my head's full of streamers and cardboard stars.
The lights are always low. It's affliction not religion.
Not once have I thought I could be saved.