Monday, December 26, 2011

florence night

This sleep does not suit me
This sleep without you
When my mind cannot find you
it turns the shape of waves
into mermaid's fins
It runs naked on glittering beaches
It cries dreams of love
and wakes up sweating in winter
My Mind does not accept this sleep
no more than my body
or soul
My existence was a sullen rotting crater
its depths of uncertainty
an abyss
No men or children climbed out
from its ghostly well
So why should it continue to putter
and sink into the crevices of lonely despair
now that you are here?
Why should it not want to share
the piercing brilliance of the moon
that it had to endure
for eons
This sleep, my darling
I will not allow it.
I'd gladly rather lay a thousand nights awake
with you by my side
than close my eyes for a single breath
with you not here.

Friday, December 23, 2011

The Rain

I sliced open the heart out
the pink of the citrus fruit
Ate it like a monster
When she spoke, my words were silent
but my eyes were screaming
I made 7 rounds
of the Ka'abah or the pyre
this I am unsure of
but my mind was elsewhere
when she spoke.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

I had a dream I was stuck in a house of dust, wooden floors and lots of windows. It was like a maze, but it was abandoned, save for the people who were looking for me. I had left the room with the volatile lesbians, the quiet, horrific-looking actress, with a pasty white face and black lips, the women that were handing hand-outs to me and my friends, to entice us to come back again. everyone was interested in watching the play, we were exhausted from gallivanting all day, and the door that led into this tiny cellar-looking room was appealing enough. before we knew it we were sitting at a long table, the room only big enough for people to get to and from their seats. We weren't really forced to stay, at least not explicitly. So I left.

But there was no way out. Only rooms and corridors and abandoned kitchens. I could hear the birds cawing outside, the smell of sunlight my only hope. The windows were barred and every other room or so had a decaying occupant. On one floor I almost walked into a room where little girls were filed into a single line, all wrapped in pink towels, supposedly being directed to a bathroom. Then I found a door that led me underground, and another that led me to a room with an unbarred window. I climbed through it and it spit me out into a sunlit alley.

The crows sang my song of freedom.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

green dream

I was briefly under water, standing on its floor, completing my espionage mission. I swam up just in time to get some oxygen for my brain, when I see that I am engulfed in a shark cage. A man with several knives tried to kill me, throwing his knives like daggers. I dodged most, caught some, and boomeranged them right back at him. A swift shove to the throat and the sound of flesh and loose blood confirm his death. I then drive the boat to land, we're running out of fuel and I have a strange need for doughnuts. Inside, I see a weasel sink his teeth into a feather mattress, a bitch give birth to yet another pup, a young girl going down on her Persian half.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

two suicidal thoughts under one roof.

I kissed Thom.
He had walked away, into a near empty field, the sunset looming somewhere far in the background.
It was the color of his hair.
He had been upset with the jumping into the water full of swordfish, the moving of the glass stove to make the place look big, the petty girls buying appliances from the little store. But most of all, he had been upset at his inability to say anything. So he left.
I simply followed him outside, grinning from ear to ear because I was so sure about everything. I followed him out and kissed him squarely on the lips.
His surprise was unmasked.
His lips were twisted in serenity.
The wheels of his mind were turning.
He held my hand and squeezed it, never once looking at me.
He was you.

Saturday, November 26, 2011


My stubborn sleeper
The demon and angel inside me
My church and mosque
synagogue too
my river, my waterfall
my sharp rocks at the bottom
the chocolate on my crepe
the salt on my wound
my map, my sky
my wings, my fall
my heartbeat
my choking cough
me me me me
my my my my
mine mine mine all mine

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


I had a dream that the world was ending and everything was purple. I wasn't worried, because I was with my baby brother, who, if I think about it, is the only person I really give a fucking damn about.

Then in my nightmare, I was following two tall women dressed in white, wearing flower tiaras, into the brightest green forest I've ever seen. When I shivered us both awake, and he kept asking me if I was ok, I couldn't speak because the world was in my mouth, and I couldn't let it fall.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

'or at least face the realities of what you've done'

Saturday, November 12, 2011

this western feeling

I would love you so much,
even if you went blind.
I'd help you make use of your
hand in other ways
if they cut off your right
ring finger.
I'd use my hair as rope,
pull out your heart and clean it,
I'd be the angel to your Muhammad
and you'd be the most perfect human
being ever created.

Wednesday, November 09, 2011

and so it is

There is a blind man here, bald and white
His stick and stance are
Left ring finger
I bet what he sees is pure
I bet the words he hears
resonate in his mind.
Because he is lucky
unlike us sight folk.
The wind from the passing train
cools his scorched skin
the same way it makes
the ends of my skirt
flutter in delight.
The time he spends
away from home
is as precious
as mine
probably more.
And yet...
I wonder
if the words he hears
are more important
because he can't see them
coming out of his lovers' mouth.
if when a pen drops does
his mind go wild?
if the lights come on
does his eyes go blind
from the sudden brightness?

There is a blind man here,
bald and white.
His heart is in a better place
than us sight folk, because
he trusts his heart,
while the rest of us blame it.

Thursday, November 03, 2011

now that it is done,
everything tastes different.

I want to ask if you're happy, but I don't think I will.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Saturday, October 01, 2011

about turn

A weird mix of
strawberries and coffee
and how I mistook
the light of a lamp
for the magic of
the moon.
I don't ever want to
the feel of your genitals
in my hands.
I don't ever want you
to forget
the girl with the thick
under the plush graveyard tree.
The angle
our love made.
360 degrees, baby.
Don't ever forget
how I wanted us
to leave that wretched circle

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Monday, September 19, 2011

not going to cry.
not this year.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

this is a poem about sex.

A delicate kiss.
My pink-colored affection leaves a trace,
everywhere I touch him.
Among the debris of the broken building,
next to the Latin Bible,
watching the picture of the holy
woman in purple pumps,
kick up her feet and say 'hey'.
I, too mimicking,
ridiculously laughing,
my limbs falling apart,
there now,
I when I was four,
captured and framed.
To the sound of  the sad harmonica,
dark hair covered in sweat and tears,
humiliation and reconciliation at its finest,
the white books full of green people fantasies.
The sudden choke,
the lackadaisical eye,
a mixture of fucking and tickling.
The weary disconnect after
eternal minutes of togetherness.
The boisterous neighbors wanting to
get our attention,
walking haughtily,
cranking music so that
my roof shakes,
my walls ache,
my heart breaks.

Friday, September 16, 2011

pain knows repetition, and nothing else.

Wednesday, September 07, 2011

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

the tears
they fall
without permission.
The window of sleep is becoming increasingly small to climb through. My eyes are open like they're expecting someone to come kiss them goodnight. Yet they don't know who, so the gaze is that of a terrified child. Like Death.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

the drill.

my baby is a man now,
he loves and hurts and dies
like everybody else.

Thursday, August 25, 2011


in their picture together, he is smiling, but his eyes are elsewhere.

Friday, August 12, 2011

i wrote a prose poem

I had a terrible dream, my darling,
of two burning houses,
neither of them ours.
Yet we watched the flames
engulf its surroundings
like our passion
did to our souls.
I walked past the free tea house,
its dancers in the doorway.
I walked past a familiar face
that hugged me and walked away.
With my satchel and sandals,
hands in my sometimes
purple dress pockets or
high-waisted beige pants,
I went looking for you.
I know I started that fire, darling,
burned your ground
to my feet.
Now I'm walking around
this delightful city,
looking for your
ashes to eat.

Sunday, August 07, 2011

'i made sacrifices in my life so you didn't have to. but i guess i was wrong.'

Saturday, August 06, 2011


when you play, you lose.

deal with it.

Friday, August 05, 2011

home alone

There's not a single step I take that doesn't make me want to be swallowed by the ground. Always been interested in morbid depictions of love and idealized instances of hate. Stories that make your heart hurt and your limbs falls asleep so you sit here helpless, waiting for someone to shake you out of this nightmare that won't let you go.

Tuesday, August 02, 2011

i would be fine if the bug in my heart decided to come out of my nose.
about time, really.


Not mine, sillies.


Sunday, July 17, 2011

he told me in my dream that he had left everyone for me. he said he didn't want to talk about it, that he had to think deeply about what he had done. he knew there'd be consequences. but he also wanted me to know that he had done it. he had finally chosen.

it's only when i woke up that i realized it was a dream.
in reality, he had left me for everyone.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Two Countries

Skin remembers how long the years grow
when skin is not touched, a gray tunnel
of singleness, feather lost from the tail
of a bird, swirling onto a step,
swept away by someone who never saw
it was a feather. Skin ate, walked,
slept by itself, knew how to raise a 
see-you-later hand. But skin felt
it was never seen, never known as
a land on the map, nose like a city,
hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosque
and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.

Skin had hope, that's what skin does.
Heals over the scarred place, makes a road.
Love means you breathe in two countries.
And skin remembers--silk, spiny grass,
deep in the pocket that is skin's secret own.
Even now, when skin is not alone,
it remembers being alone and thanks something larger
that there are travelers, that people go places
larger than themselves.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Monday, July 11, 2011

i don't get it, and i don't care.

everything is everything is nothing.

i miss the old me.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

'don't fucking smile at me.
it's not a smile situation.'


Thursday, July 07, 2011

the 90's and then some.

i would happily kiss you good day because you were so patient as to kiss me goodnight.

you stayed and stayed, even when i asked you to leave. you didn't let me miss you. mr. future told me it'd be alright, all of it. waiting, still, to see if he was right.

if someone asked me to define us, i'd say 'it's like trying to balance dinner plates on monkey bars'.

Sunday, July 03, 2011

cried today.
this needs to stop.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

i had the most magnificent dream, of being on cocaine and dancing in a sunlit bathtub with my friends.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

I'm running, I'm running, catch up with me life.

Monday, May 30, 2011

j.d. salinger/ sine qua non

How much diagonally can one lie on a single bed? Depression, self-loathing shortly ensues. ImissyouImissyouImissyou. You don't mind that my hair sprouts from the center of my head, and thus ends up everywhere. You don't mind my debauched vocabulary or my inexcuse for experiencing carnal pleasure. Who are you anyway? So far off, imaginary daydream of mine. Whatever it is, just know that I have memorized your scent by heart. Know that I am tired of daily successes (like finishing that fucking book already) and daily failures (the inability to get out of bed). I emailed them, after I finally forced myself to figure out what the problem was (because it's never me, you know), and apparently they don't make superhero garb in my size. How fucking fantastic, right? At least now I have a legitimate excuse for being a downright cunt.
'Excuse me, are you on the job today?'
'No, you fucker. Every day is off day for me. I win'

The End.

Sunday, May 08, 2011

fey woman

Guilt caught me falling,
caught me in its arms saying,
'I'm not done with you yet'.
Wide-eyed, speculative, easy inside,
Wide-eyed, sleepy, just wanting to die.
Guilt holds on, ignorant in its mirth,
as I lay crying, singing,
'The Fool is hurt, The Fool is hurt'.

Sunday, May 01, 2011

guest post- Brother Cavil, Battlestar Galactica.

'I don't want to be human! I want to see gamma rays, I want to hear x-rays, and I...I wanna smell dark matter. Do you see the absurdity of what I am? I can't even express these things properly because I have to...I have to conceptualize complex ideas in this stupid, limiting, spoken language!'

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Monday, April 11, 2011

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Sunday, April 03, 2011

guest post- sarah kay, 'point b'.

If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.
And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”
But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.
I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind.Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this,“There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.
You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And yes, on a scale of one to over-trusting I am pretty fucking naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”
Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.
Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Sunday, March 20, 2011

paradise circus

‎'Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worse kind of suffering'

Friday, March 18, 2011

guest post- thom yorke

'I have a real problem being a man in the ’90s… Any man with any sensitivity or conscience toward the opposite sex would have a problem. To actually assert yourself in a masculine way without looking like you’re in a hard-rock band is a very difficult thing to do… It comes back to the music we write, which is not effeminate, but it’s not brutal in its arrogance. It is one of the things I’m always trying: To assert a sexual persona and on the other hand trying desperately to negate it.'

Thursday, March 17, 2011


January stumbled into February which fell into March. Secrets unraveled like yarn out of control, and before we could collect our character with frivolity and without anyone seeing, nature's law and order came to set us undeniably and reluctantly straight.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

guest post- vita sackville- west

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn't even feel it. And yet I believe you'll be sensible of a little gap. But you'd clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan't make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this --But oh my dear, I can't be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don't love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don't really resent it.

However I won't bore you with any more.

Wednesday, March 09, 2011


Hair glowing like red fire in dark corners of familiar places.
I could burn your forest down and watch in boredom as you clean up the mess.

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

young fools

the stars are out, and on the loose.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

million dollar question

do you look incredibly dashing?
and happy?

I am very cold, but I resist the need to warm my body with anything else but you.
Your fire-breathing dragon of a person.
I know you are unsure of me, but do not forget what I was in your eyes that night with glass bottles filled with incense and burning candles. Don't forget the music, the inadequacies of our spoken words, and the flesh that crept in to seduce us. Our chemistry played with our electricity, leaving our minds to suffer with the consequences.

Saturday, February 26, 2011


i taste so good in your mouth.
maybe it has to do with the biology of our bodies.
or maybe i just want to be in your mouth.

i think our sadness has bound us in an unbreakable bond of hollow laughs and honest embraces.

talk it out, talk it in.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

guest post- e.e. cummings

i like my body

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

Friday, February 18, 2011


if there is one thing you should probably know about me, if you don't already, is that I am a Radiohead freak. Their new album came out today, and...I have no words.
But Thom can dance, and here's some sexy proof.

now excuse while i dance and twitch in my mind's closet for the rest of eternity.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

updated flickr

you know what it is.

isaac and ishmael

I withered, waiting for him, on the floor. First there was one bug, that came out of my forearm, then another from my nipple, then another from my ear. Soon, my entire body was covered in invisible insects, and I disturbed my bed made of unchopped yellow onions. I was doomed, caught in an avalanche of this putrid vegetable, bugs covering my body, and he was still no where in sight.

The warmth woke me up. The desire to have glowing honey hugging the inside of my throat made me come out of my self-made nightmare. I think about his waterfall legs, the creamy body of a tree, a lackluster pool of tar for eyes. The sun came out after the terrorizing darkness that winter bestowed upon us with its frozen heart.

He feels so much. He feels fantastical lifetimes worth of love and death, stories of the flesh and wooden swings, kisses on mountains. 'Bravo, lionlady,' he said when he left. 'We have killed the tiger'.

Monday, February 07, 2011

spare parts

Her brow is tainted with furrows of a lovelorn. She is demure in a peculiar way. She walks theatrically, blinks loudly and sips her tea on high volume. The ghosts of next door rooms and corridors let her pass, sometimes with or without a second glance. He wonders about her, more often than he should, more often than he'd like, more often than was probably allowed. He pushes her hair away from her face when they're together, to feel helpless in those quicksand eyes. Her scent is making his breath short and quick. Earlier, she had made the mistake of hiding in his open coat. He had not stopped thinking about her for a single second after that. She brought with her a kind of disturbance in his life that he had been acutely unaware of. His chest was shut tight for days after she obligatorily left; when she would return was unbeknownst to him. Sometimes when they would stand side by side, he'd sneak a glance at her. She was short, far down from him, but her person made him feel extraordinarily small. Where did she stow away her warmth and kindness? Her sorrow and her pity? Her love and her jealousy? He felt like her being was an abyss. He could fall into her and quite possibly never come out.

Sunday, February 06, 2011

enriched- stolen from Sean Moeller

There are those days when we feel like we couldn't be more lost, as if we're literally fumbling around without any sort of pattern or clear destination in mind. We're blurry on the edges, half seeing things and half seeing right through them. We're breathing in fog, breathing out fog and our teeth are chattering incoherent error messages, making it feel as if every inch of our skin is short two or three heavy-duty blankets. We're off somewhere, for all intents and purposes, gone - out in the ether. These are the days when we feel that, to cut our losses, we should just remain on the sides of the windows where the least amount of damage can be done to us, where we're at least as safe as our belongings, our hoarded stuff makes us feel. We suppose that the knives could always turn on us and the same goes for the glass bottles and jars - likely always willing or capable of cracking off their bottoms sides on the edge of a counter to wield a jagged weapon. What we're most worried about - it seems to me and to Mr. Sam Beam of Iron & Wine - is not when our belongings might come alive, turn on us and seek blood, but when those other people that we share a home with, that one person we share that shaky skin with, decide that they want to turn on us. They don't know what this can look like and neither do we. We just believe it to be the worst that can happen. Beam, over the years, has written his way into these scenes, written us advertently right into them with him, alongside him, and we remain there, with him, unable to catch our breath. He takes the fog right out of us, counteracts our insecurities with the beautifully hushed uncertainty. It's as if he has a way of gathering up all of the bumps in the night, all of the fire light and all of the tender touches of a young mother or father, of a dying grandmother or grandfather and bringing them all into the picture to put us at ease. It's as if all of the things that we've ever feared in our lives - bringing life into the world, growing older and passing out of the world we lucked into, and all of the craziness in the whirlwind in between - are summed up in Iron & Wine songs, distilled into his leafy version of silence and love and shown to us in a way that makes them more enchanting than scary. He makes us think even more than we already do about Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree," and how even though that boy is sort of a needy little son of a bitch, the relationship between he and the tree is just about right and it tears us up inside, makes us want to weep hard, when we read it to our own children and think of them taking and leaving us until we're just a broken down stump someday - not meaning to hurt us, just doing what they have to do to make it through this lumpy life. On Beam's new album, "Kiss Each Other Clean," he's once again magnificent in his dry, honey prettiness, cutting us into these sad stories that are as classic as they come. We feel them in our bones. We cry for these people, if only, because they sound like people that we have so much in common with. We love when he writes things like "the night won't compensate the blind," or sings about how someone's getting lectured that time is neither kind, nor unkind because it feels like we're here, barefoot and feeling every blade of grass prick us in the toes, the arches and the heels, as if trying to get our soles to turn and look at what's above them. Just look up. See that sky up there. Wonder where it goes, where it ends and know well enough that all of us and our silly problems are quite minor. Such a thing will put the shine back in our eyes, keep the fogginess out of our mouths and hearts and will brighten up everything we've got stored inside that ribcage of ours.

Sunday, January 30, 2011


He does not kiss me fully, and his conscience touch stems out of distraction. He does not like to make magic love to magic music. To him, they were two different types of awesome, and you could only really pay attention one at a time, without disrespecting the sanctity and devotion of the other. The room had to be dark, for the most part. It made voices spit fiery balls of desire and hands plunge into a desperate search for treasure. And when you finally did allow light to stream in, you weren't surprised at the person holding your face, because you didn't know who you had just been with. When he slept, he rested his arm between my diverged  breasts. Like an arrow through a heart, it was bound to be a mess; and so it was.

Friday, January 28, 2011


'i'm naked, i'm numb, i'm stupid, i'm stayin'.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


I have an open-toed, thinking heart. The arrow suggested I was going in the opposite direction. We were unpleasant and perfect, in a city that wasn't ours.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


'so what do we do now?'
'...there's nothing to do..'

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

the girls

There was a passionate, melting, blending kiss. Then:

'There is nothing to forgive'
'There is everything to forgive'. 

Friday, January 07, 2011

Sunday, January 02, 2011


He told me (in my dream, of course) that he loved my words. He said that he often had to go over them, again and again, over a course of a few days. That he studied and analyzed them, that he had felt their presence in his life long before I showed up and messed up his routine. He told me he was afraid that he'd never be able to get on a plane and go around the world. He feared he would never be able to learn the international language of love. The one I spoke to him, and the one he could not speak back.

Saturday, January 01, 2011

in my next life.

hi banana.
hi banana.
how you doin', banana?
how you doin', banana?

i love you.
i love you too, banana.