Indie Girl

I want to be the indie girl blue hair and bones making

eyes at Joseph Gordon-Levitt in a record store smoking

for deep appreciation of

triangles

called ‘The Electric Fetus’ reading Murakami in a coffee

shop corner I’d like to be more concrete but even if I said the name

you probably haven’t heard of it browsing a consignment shop

in the Marais District or St. Ouen flea market but more

likely the Salvation Army or Goodwill or even Forever

21 but I won’t tell you that

I don’t like Nutella it’s too mainstream

my picture’s on weheartit it’s too mainstream this antique

camera doesn’t work here’s a digital just get me holding it

there

that’s fine

no not my face just me looking into the lens

absorbed in its uncorrupted simplicity its brokenness symbolizing

the destructive effects of postmodern and modern consumerism casualties on

souls with new technologies (excluding Tumblr) be intrigued

by my indifference it’s vintage from my father’s closet he wore it

back in ’62 I take it off the hanger and braid with my hair my mother used to

grow flowers

I wear them on my dress

She Is Light

That’s her. You see her? She is quite beautiful—but she is lonely. Each step she takes is a momentary dance, as if her shoes contain tiny springs in the soles. Her smile could relight darkened filaments in bulbs long exchanged. She hopes that if she shines, she’ll attract a few moths for friends. She wouldn’t mind if they were not butterflies. Some days she is content to be alone, but others—she misses having someone to talk to. Even so, she’ll still shine for you—you, the passerby. You, the stranger. She does not judge or differentiate between whom she’ll give her light. When you see her, try to give her a nod or a smile. Some kind of acknowledgement. She’ll appreciate it because she isn’t noticed very often, but when she is, her wattage is less inclined to waver.