Tuesday, January 22, 2013



Take the train
fly off the handle
I don’t care how you do it
Just get here
Everything is so important
I’m telling you to fucking do it
because the years make gaps
In my teeth
Marked with poison ivy
I have random heart palpitations
I’m not sure if any of this is fair
Pains in your chest
Go see a doctor
Life is too fragile
If I could do it over
I wouldn’t
It was perfect then
But now is a has-been
Have I ever tried to be less temperamental?
Have I ever rode the back
of a white horse
down to the court house
Perhaps in dreams I said, “Let them eat cake”
A real B-movie version of Marie Antoinette
But mostly I cried
Because every bump in the road
Was the apocalypse
Every chip in my nail
Was a chip in my shoulder
Every highway sign gave me
A panic attack which could later
Be traced to my time-of-death
I’m sure no coroner would even bother…

In the living room—
Yellow light shines
On cigarette stained walls
You click click click
With your thumb…
Joystick your way to
Beating a level
As I thumb my way to your heart
Click keys with the precision
Of a typist at an ad agency
But what I write is even
Less important
Days slide into each other
Gloomy or grey
At times I have contemplated
The inevitability of everything
The scenes I can unfold
Like origami and remember
Just how to fold it the same way
All over again
The scenes we play out
The roles I have memorized
And the lines like Hersey wrappers
Like gum wrappers with some girl’s
Name and phone number written on
Them in loopy cursive
We unfold and re-fold again
Three-fold is the rule
I’m not sure the religion
I have folded many holy things
On days other than Sundays
I am also very superstitious
But basically just a snot-nosed kid
Who gets overemotionalmelodramatic
When things don’t go my way.

I took a class on grammar and punctuation.
It reminded me about important issues
Such as the proper use of a semi-colon
And a dependant clause.
I still don’t know how to punctuate us
I’m not sure if it should be a comma
Or a conjunction…and….
Or maybe just an ellipses
You …
I wish sometimes that you were ugly
So I could make less shallow decisions
Your eyes paralyze me
You are my wet dream from when I was sixteen
And my regression at 25
And now I’m just trying to get tough:
Leather jacket, red nailpolish, drive-fast,
All night, smoker’s voice and the body of a
But who was that girl in the graveyard
With the blue balloon
And is her voice fading to a
When you were inside me
I was thinking about a center
Opening up
Not all the fake faƧade shit we
Pretend is important
No one cares if you owned 12 pairs
Of Nikes when you are dead.
I know my voice, a chalking hallow
Of a steel drum,
The perfect needle scratch against
The thread that follows the needle
The blood which precedes
I need more than this language to get through to you
I need more than syllables and
question marks and
subjects and
I need more than Freudian memories
And fatalistic delusions
I need more than fear to light a match under me
A certain roar from the tongue of God
I need to drive far without remembering where I am going

Without the sense to turn-back around.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013


I don’t believe in 25

The magic happens at 16 and possibly 17

a quick flash from a  disposable camera and then it’s over

left-over Chinese food and spilt milk

this is what I will leave you with

when I leave your house

the crumbs on your fire-escape

a trail to nowhere in particular


If someone had warned me that I would wake up

And suddenly feel old before my time

In a car in the middle of the highway

Bumps and clanks me around

And I am so far from the womb I came from

So far from the shrill cries of teenage angst

And whatever it is you people do nowadays


Once I wondered if I’d grow up to be a brighter bulb

And platinum bombshell queen of the underground

I grew up scared


I was a tiny scratch on your record

A whisper in the trees

A voice so hoarse and soft

Only your flesh knows the words

Your mouth cannot fathom


I told her that she’d begin to grow up

Just like me

If she made all the right mistakes

The ones with boys in cars

And the ones where she picks up the wrong thing

Smokes something


I knew there’d come a time

Where she’d wake up with a buzz

In her ears


It would  seem

But the flicker is gone

And the static remains

Adjusting the bunny-ears on an old television

Nothing makes sense

Everything would fall like white snow

On a black screen

One day she’d wake up—thirty

With bills to pay and an unclean kitchen

One day she’d learn to pray

Hard and fast

Wake up in a pant—

“God grant me the serenity…”

One day she’d wake up in a haze of

Soup cans and one word answers

But nothing can be explained

Or solved or fathomed with one word


I was always my mother’s daughter

Her skin- alabaster white

I’d always aim to please

Bend and twist to suit her needs

I’d lay flat on the floor if she needed to walk over me


Once I wrote the melodies

You play on repeat in your heart

An over-used music box that knows the song

Slightly off key and a little bit delayed

My mother is magic and too big to fit inside a poem

Or a hallmark card

She is black boots and eyeliner

She is brash and spectacular

She knows all the answers

And she is nothing like me

Scared and shy, pretending to be


Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Dear Life

A psychic told me she’d read my palm On my lunch break
But I didn’t have time to know the future
I need it spelled out on my skin as I sleep
I need a lot of pain to know I am in trouble
A heart murmur and a bruise on the inside of my wrist I need you to reach for me and grip me tighter Maybe I need a bit of a dig Of your nail into my neck
A bright red bruise I need you to tattoo my name to the inside of your lip
So I can sit somewhere between your tongue and cheek
Or a little bit closer I need you for once to do what you say you’ll do
So you won’t be so god damn predictable
I can’t take your word on anything
All the phone calls that are intrinsic
All the nods that seem homage
To me but perhaps there was someone else there
That I didn’t know about Someone whose hair shines plasticine Perfect
Whose skin is pinched red and whose eyes gleam
Like candy cane Christmas Someone who sighs when you Touch her
Someone whose hormones don’t Control her life Someone who falls easy in to bed
Whose head rolls back when you fuck her In the mouth
Or in a stairwell Someone who doesn’t fall in love
But makes musical sighs Sounding somewhat like Beethoven
And a little bit indie rock maudlin. Maybe I am just holding onto you for dear life

Robin Hood

Give me one more day Sweet songs that sit at the back of my throat And refuse to budge Secrets that swim through the shell of me The highway which stretches all the way through this country Snakes through the dustbowl into this shithole town Drops you off and loses the keys Invites you for drinks and lovemaking Then slams the door on you when you are halfway in I don’t speak your language anymore Sometimes sign language can help But only in more benign situations You were sitting at my front porch waiting In the still frame of my daydream life You were moving to the subterranean crescendo Of deep blue longing Your hair was the deepest blue black And you got all my jokes Even the ones I never said If The highway is for gamblers the skyline is for everyone I breathe the dark soot of my cigarette Right down to its filter And you don’t care if I reek of smoke and lair du tempts the sun bleached stench of one who knows everything and nothing at the same time cover me be my backbone steady me against the imminent stretch of plate tectonics be my Robin Hood steal from the rich and give it to me

Monday, December 3, 2012

All the Things I feel for you

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Ralph’s Market At Midnight In Van Nuys, California

My God, I love Iris Berry. She says what I'm thinking and man, can this woman write. In support of a poet after my heart I am posting one of my favorite by Ms. Berry herself which is relevant during this time of year. If you haven't read her work...give yourself an early holiday present and go here.

The lights are cruel
at the Ralphs Market
In Van Nuys
on Burbank
and Van Nuys Boulevard
at midnight
on the 1st of December.

It’s the last month of the year
and apparently it’s Christmas
according to the aisle’s
at Ralphs market.
But if I had to guess by the customers
I’d say it was Halloween.
It’s desperate here at Ralphs
In Van Nuys at midnight
and the lights don’t help any.
Florescent lights are never good for the complexion.
There’s a young, homeless couple
walking the aisles,
buying food
and looking happy
at least they’re in a relationship
is what I say.
Freshly home from a trip
To “The Big Apple,”
I went with my boyfriend
and came home single.
We had to go 3,000 miles to do that?
It happened in bed
in the dark
in a dingy Times Square hotel room
It was epic
and when that plane landed
20 hours later..
on California soul
I clicked my heels together
and quietly chanted
there’s no place like home
and now
here I am
at home
in my neighborhood Ralphs market
feeling like an alien.

The thing about sunny California
is the only way to tell the seasons
is by what’s selling on the shelves
of the market.
I have a thing for the market
somehow it’s a form of meditation for me
nothing in there
reminds me of my life…
I can do this…
I’m a spiritual giant
In the frozen food section
I’m Gandhi
In the greeting card section
and I’m Mother Teresa in the check-out line
forgiving all the tabloid sinners
and connecting with something
greater than all of this.
Credit or debit?
Paper or plastic?
Peace… please?
I’d like to give it a chance
after all
it is the Holidays.