Sylvia Plath and Me …




Venice Beach heat, I can’t

reach my drink.

As the blaze of LA

beats and beats and beats;

the metronome to the wind.


I lie horizontal, like

Sylvia Plath. Hand on brow,

mind askew. Chocolate milk,

just a hair, just a breath

out of reach.


I. Just. Can’t. Reach.


Well, FINE. If that’s how it is,

Cruel world, cruel lord of jesters;

Then I’ll just die. Enough

Minor defeats.





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