Tuesday, August 13, 2013

california, in hospitals and jails
you are the street's shadow-kissing
white wombs and leaving gore
dripping from the future of every

"We will have our blondes, by bleach
and by knife!" masturbating furiously,
the executioner's wife dreams of living
three sizes under the expected zone
labeled erogenous. How cold.

We are prisoners of this war;
you wrap us up in helixes
you think you see, your false
security blanket leaves us cold
and rotting on the ground.

Thursday, May 9, 2013



All day the twin melting helix of 
souls dancing in the moon and wind
--a ritual deflation, dusty hands 
spread wide and chapped raw, reaching
towards the glowing eyes and gaping 
maws of 1,000 spirits in a whirlpool.

And the stars shine over us all.

Wrap this hope in a cocoon of solitude,
rest it in emerging golden rays with sparrows singing
as the leaves reach and cover you in grace
waiting for your safe return to our glittering shores.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Herstory Check

Slivered eyes my
way, my walk watched and
weighted, always on a scale of thumbs.

And I cease to be myself again,
surfeited definitions like bent hands on Salvador's clock.
All you cocks figure it out,
I'll be in my vagina bubble awkwardly predicting each one of you
onto the colored lights by name
--but let me make clear:
my legs are not spread to your mock or like or silence

--toys and go home
and I dance in your brined uncertainty at everything.
Only my friends bring me to parties anymore.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012


Do love a favor: never
sing that song for him,
it stutters and breaks
adoring hearts. Never
sing that song for him,
the one you use to
seduce your own heart.

Never sing that song for
him; it makes love like
I wanted to
                 and still do.
If you favor him, guard
him from your own siren-
sweet, sonorous sibilance.
Save the ache for those
trailing behind you now.

Never sing that song for
him; that heroin dream
clouds the line 'tween
media and reality. It sells
a story of swings, porches
and wine; love made on hills
and long, slow-burning nights
that culminate in sunrise.
Kindly caution--if you care
for him--those fantastic flames.

Do love a favor: never
sing that song for him,
leave its melodies to me.
Flawed harmonies ache
rippling through my
throat. I wince worse
than anyone. Darling,
Do love a favor: let
me sing it one more
time with you.


"It ended bad, but I loved what we started..." ~ Fiona Apple

I am a bridge, you have crossed me
over into the arms of another. The
shimmering gleam bright on
the newfound day deeper shades
my hollow clouds.

My girders shake under the weight
yet again, lIt by hanDs more kindly
crafted than my own, nails shaped
by master craftsmen affixed to
ropes restricting range and power,
rapes existing from past lovers
rip my heart from underwater.

I'd better bring an umbrella;
anyone can see IT Looks Like Rain
around here.

We'll look around at downed trees--
I'll despair, you'll delight. You'll see
a playground and I a land mine, but
I'll never hate your innocent mind.

Sunset is all I have, fading slowly
Into The Dark, where only stars
remain. But I'm not looking anymore,
and neither are you. We've both got
our reasons, insulated from each other,
private power lines that once

Friday, May 27, 2011

A Letter To Myself

It's like we're buckets and waterfalls
But every bucket has a hole
And then you say, have you found a plug yet?

It doesn't have to be perfect but
You have the power over your hole
Your plug is yours to control

Remember your plugged is your power
And your waterfall, this nourishing bliss
Can be given wisely or poured amiss

So where does that sacred water go?
Does it spill over, or hit the rocks down below?
And tell me how you know

Tuesday, April 12, 2011


Awoke slick hard and trembling
to the stars and night sky day
analogy, knowing and wanting
to understand these complex
interweavings with the midpoint
threads looming, bound into
boundless freethinking. Howto
deflect by diameter when the truth
is both, dear, neither, and free each in
moments best kept interseparated?

The ways we touched our souls, selves
praygasping in the pew and aisle tell you
story's depth and intimate pride to stand
a crossroads within the start stop push
of the encouraging hand, stopping to rest
where clarity and confusion share a bed

I fear the lack of threat invested in the midpoint
his smooth, her rough and only when I
cease possessive rate of whose is whatshalli
movekissbreathewrithetouchandhow can I embody
the needed space, pleasure repeating in the patterns
and shifting spaces her, my, his, gasp, yes
and when I let myself want what will never happen
and when I let myself know this is no conflict
and when I let myself reflect this each to other
I crash trembling back into myself
troubled no more