February 2003 - Present





unpublished romance novel

maybe it's about time
I pressed you between my notebookpapersheets
and wrote something
worth keeping.

you will find me
in this spiral-edged,
tornpaper paradise,

with hope worn flat and dirty--
like the eraser end of a pencil.

I will conduct you like a symphony
in breath and words and whimpers.

and when it is done
it will burn
among the banned literature
of our generation.


athlete vs. doubting coach

Friday afternoon and I am the only person out on the track. Normal people go home. It's moments like this in which I wish I was normal.

I stand there with my ridiculously orange pole in my hand, marvelling at the paper-thinness of you. Not fast enough, you say. Not strong enough. I stare at you. How can you be saying this to me?

excuse me, sir.
underneath this frumpy sweatshirt
I am streamlined beautiful.

I carry my femininity
in more places than just my hips.

wanna race?

I am girl.


lackluster innocence

Build me a fairy tale --
the roof could be my broken pride,
the floor my tattered faith.
You could decorate the walls
with the shards of your rage-shattered cell phone,
with all your petty indiscretions,
like a tapestry woven in violence.

Perhaps if you patchwork it all together,
you could have a whole outfit
of your sicklysad deception.
You could wrap yourself in its thickness,
lean against February,
and hope it keeps you warm
instead of suffocating you.

I heard they were selling salvation
behind the barber shop on 24th and Main.
And as fast as you drive
I'm afraid you missed the mark, dearest.
It's funny how you'll sing
to a God who wouldn't have you,
but not to the girl
standing outside your window
at one a.m.
who would have taken you anyway.

Line up all your dirty little lies,
so they'll be ready when I get there.
They look so pretty,
in their straightsober rows,
standing attention --
soldiers of your antitruth.

Go ahead and tear away
at what remains of my will.
Go ahead and tie my wrists,
leave rope-pattern bruises
across those vital arteries.
I'll struggle all you want, precious.

Fuck me beautiful.


every day poetry

She stopped a moment, interrupting the rhythm of our eating, our talking, our being in the beingness of one another.

I blinked.

"What?"

"Okay... when you were younger, did you ever do that thing where you had caterpillars, and you watched them turn into butterflies?"

"Yeah..."

"Do you remember how it smelled?"

"No..."

"That's what that fry just tasted like."

"You just... tasted... the transition between caterpillar and butterfly?"

"Yeah."

"Hm."


a better fourth

she bought a pair of pink socks
with a lifetime guarantee

she's always been beautiful like that

she wonders if it's false advertising
but doesn't really care either way
as long as her feet
don't get so cold

and I stand there
watching her face
as she straightens the strings
on my odd bohemian shirt

and silently hope that I will be in her life
longer than those socks


girl vs. machine: the lost potential of being heard

I'm calling you
I have something
                 to say
or do you already know?
every
      ring
presses against my sternum
           ring
do you know it's me?
                ring
can you feel my breath
                     ring
heavy against the receiver?
                          ring
do you know how hard I'm shaking?

...please leave a message...


musings of a less pressing matter

I tear away at this meat,
knife and fork: my docile weapons.
ripping at the sinews
of what used to have
a face.
and it's disgusting
but it's life.

no matter how many times I shower
or compulsively wash my hands --
of this, I cannot be cleansed:
a tattoo among stains,
a scar among bruises.

don't you see that?

as I am consumed by this ungodly consumption,
ritualized by this holistic ritual,
I'm sorry I cannot chase you,
run you down,
wind my arms around your waist,
press your back against my torso,
pull you to the floor,
make you listen.

or perhaps I have been altogether deafening.


masterpiece

we are randomly splattered
drops of grey and navy blue
across the canvas of Wednesday afternoon.

we are abstract bas-relief,
an ancient mosaic of jagged violence,
a fever dream of classic sculpture,
an emotional breakdown in pointillism,
an aching melody of clatter and human voices.

and in this fading winterlight,
this shallow dreamstate,
we are savage truth.


unburnished V2 with a grin

I hate that you drive fast
even though you never go anyplace far
you're gonna kill yourself, you know it?

I hate that you look at me
even though I try to hide
like a child playing peek-a-boo
and losing

I hate that I cannot sleep
unless I feel that you are well
how do you measure "well" anyhow?
seems so strange, doesn't it?

in as much as I abhor you
in as much as I implore you
in as much as I will war you

I adore you.

so what?


unburnished

I hate that you drive fast
(you're gonna kill yourself...)
I hate that you look at me
(I wouldn't if I were you...)
I hate that I cannot sleep
unless I feel that you are well
(how should I go about measuring that...?)

in as much as I abhor you
in as much as I implore you
in as much as I will war you

I adore you.

so what?


thank you for the bruises

never did my body hold more peace
than when it raged for you.

as child warriors,
poet martyrs,
dirty saints,
we bit the neck
of that which scorned us
and it fell to our will.

hold my wrists tighter,
kiss me harder,
maybe they won't look at us that way.

we've won.


driven

he fumbles momentarily with the ignition
then hits it hard,
engine roaring to life,
eyes opening.

and there it began:
his wild, sweatyhanded escape
miles of road--a dirty american dream.
he didn't bother
with second gear.

he ignores the dents,
the scratches,
the letters keyed
-deep-
into the passenger door.
he presses the gas,
imprinting the floormat,
the needle dipping towards E.

windows rattling,
engine screaming,
no one is safe from green lights
and yield signs,
no matter how
f a s t
they choose to go.

she's running on empty.


rhyme without reason

perhaps it's too much trouble
to finally unbind my shutters
but I appreciate the gesture
the rage against my clutter

you could drive til morning
and I doubt you'd be satisfied
but hey, at least you could say you'd been there
at least you could say you'd tried

and if I could just have a moment, please
just a halfday to mend
come back Sunday afternoon
and we'll be fine again

I'm sorry I'm so messy
I'm sorry I make things hard
but I know you can't stand the sight of me
passed out in your yard

perhaps this isn't what we're meant for
maybe this isn't right
and if that's the case, darlin'
I won't hesitate to take flight

I know I'm just a charmer
in my brokendirty way
but I need a little more than somethin'
so hear me, save me, stay


the truth in submission

her hands against
the metal buckle
her nails clicking
fingers wrapping 'round
battered leather
her prowess wrapping 'round
breathless I

the momentary tightening
reminding me
i n h a l e
then the release
the buckle hangs dumbly
nothing without its mate
a circle interrupted
belt undone

and gently
slowly
she p u l l s
me towards her
leather away from me
slithering through belt loops
around hips
a snake uncoiling

and I am enthralled
by fork-tongued she
who conquers
my zipper
tooth
      by
          tooth
and me
        inch
     by
inch

there is an understanding
in the hush that follows
the melding of our madness
the filling of our hollows


a note to the overdramatic

I say
(don't)
what I mean,
(read)
darling,
(between)
and nothing more
(the fucking lines)

youworrytoomuch
(becausethere'snothingthere)


rehab

did it hurt?
your hands
shaking
rattling against
dirty time
scraping against
the tar of your skin
or could you feel it?

did you crave it?
darkened and solitary
everything
in shades
of hunter green
was it wasted
to be wasted?

your system purged
of some unnatural substance
the toxicity that became you
that breathed you
veins collapsing
tissue rubbing
against tissue
throbbing

you spilled it, didn't you?

please say you don't miss me anymore.


acceleration

dark glasses
because she's not been sleeping

redlines
engine rattling
her fuel seeps
to the gutter

the radio plays on through static


check please

I watch my father
cut his mother's steak
into bite-size pieces

and vow to die young
even if I live to be old


cadence of grey

still slightly under
my cell phone beeps plaintively
wanting of its sweet electric nectar
and I roll over
against the tangled sheets

you think of me
even when I'm not there

it's almost afternoon
saturday sings in minor


completing the square

chucks off the shelf
symmetry of blisters
just a little slow
part of me still stands next to you

it was sweet of you to call


Ode to the Underaged

mascara runs
leaving spidertrails
connecting freckles
you were trying to cover

heat between melts
the first foreign layer of you
I kiss you so you won't talk about
what you'll be wearing when
because you're never wearing it long

behind your too-casual practiced grip
on that bottle
you're still so softly youthful
longing to fit anywhere
as easily as your tongue in my mouth


misplaced lover

You were Jeffrey, the Dairy Queen boy in Ozona, Texas.
You were the engagement ring on the snow cone girl's finger.
You were the kid with the surf board on the day the waves were pathetic.
You were inside every blue-eyed pretty boy over six feet tall.
Yet you were nothing because you were not with me.


downer

the inbetweener s l i d e
         it feels a little funny
in this mattress upholstered
   feverdream
       we forget
       how clear
       it's not
and it's okay
if you don't call tomorrow
    or the next day
it's fine it's cool
nothing really
       has -s h a p e-
                 in here
           anyway
and it seems I'm trapped
in the process
of waking
         (of sleeping)
(shhhh)
there are fingers
                 there
             where?
         here
love/hate




not a word


consumption

it depends on how you spin it
clockwise
with the glittering sparklers
light me up
i n h a l e me
I promise I'll make you
              feel
                  anything

this
is
not
right

the leader of the carnies
laughs high above the multicolored
     singing
            tent
his handlebar mustache
at perfect -points-

the leader of the carnage
screams high about the multicolored
        flesh
             and bone
his ridiculous viking's helmet
neatly split in two

this
is
not
wrong

and maybe she was nothing
crouching in the high branches
that left -scratches-
on her mandolin hands
but maybe she was
            som
              eth
                ing
but no one will ever tell




counterclockwise


song of 2:33 a.m.

break
     his fingers pound
         the keys
ringing above the high rafters
     his fingers
strum
         his fingers -control-
high the teary eyed wind descent
     wings spread
         just not wide
             enough
the clatter
     of chords
silly putty anthem
         with platinumscars
shoe full of blood
             saves her on Thursday
but leaves Saturday at her disposal
     just between here
and the Chinatown Cambodian market
   I am the border
check, please
   I am the line
cross me
         don't slow down
ignore
     traffic
         rules
foronceinyourmiserablelife
     speed
         just a little
hurt
     just a tad
throttle


excrete

desert night time
     lights
             sssslide
down chrome panel smiles
this was meant for
     the metal girl
         wind
in sun
     bleached hair
rapidly moving
     fingers
sssshift replace
         settle
rust tracks long hardened
             making her smile
p e r p e t u a l
discover the heat
                 of flesh
         sssslit


x-acto 11 USA

you were always unassuming
waiting for me to
-come-
     to you
with your calm
         placid nature
and how many times
did you comfort me?
allow me to s l e e p?
I came to you
     in your seductive
         charm
pressed you to my s k i n
the smell of you
         -covered-
     in me
lips to -heat- to skin to -life-
the love you bore me was unmatched
predator you
made people prey for me
there was no one who possesed
more
     p a s s i o n
for my body
     than you
it's a shame I have to let you go
you'd never do that for me


prayer

are you going
               to let me go?
your voice
somewhere
            on the other
end
              of the wires
metalcoldhotspark

love
me
not?

don't say
those words
        if you can't
saymyname
fuzzyelectricsexmachine

lovemehard

what
       will you do
           with me?
when you have me
in your veins?
           when you can't
       p u r g e
me?

hate
me
please?

face
             less
barbwire bruises
         you're
someplace
that isn't here

damn.


companion pieces - dad

He's handsome in old pictures,
with his hat just so.
The black and white of his squared young jaw
reflects a time before us kids,
before crayons and light brites,
before shoes to tie and tears to dry.
I compare our features,
the then and now of him and me,
to find my face hidden somewhere in his.
His hands have known the carvings of countless holiday turkeys,
the patience of catching fireflies in summer,
the mechanics of how to swing a baseball bat.
I remember my tiny hands reaching for his immense ones,
my fingers wrapping 'round only one of his.
I remember sitting in his lap
listening to his impromptu stories
and never quite realizing that he embellished here and there.
I remember thinking that if I just stood up straight enough,
that I might one day reach his swaying height.
I watch him now, in his weathered wisdom,
knowing just how many please-daddy's it takes to make him relent,
and some part of me begins to realize
how much of me is him.
The subtle inflections of my existence
vibrate on some frequency in common with his.
He has taught me innumerable things,
like how to drive a standard,
and when not to steal second base
(although I often do it anyway).
But perhaps the important lessons
are the ones I cannot inventory.
Perhaps I respect him more
for the wars he did not fight.
He's handsome in old pictures,
with his mop-top haircut
and a baby cradled in his massive paws.
He is a husband, a soldier, a lover,
and only a man.


companion pieces - mom

She was born blonde,
with her father's brown eyes.
She grew to be a lithe, long piece of flesh,
pretty with her 60s glasses
and beehive hair.
She managed to escape the molasses inertia
of her small Texas town
where everyone knows everyone else's momma
and people sit languidly on their porches
because there ain't nothin' on TV.
I am the second generation
long-legged girl in a red sports car
(something my father never expected).
She and I have the same hands,
with our long graceful fingers
and delicate blue veins.
Through my sixteen-year-old eyes
(brown, by some genetic miracle)
I can see my time-warped reflection in her.
She is an echoing medley
of Doris Day movies,
home-made soups
(none better),
and Danielle Steel novels
(that she reads through wire-rimmed glasses
at 3 a.m.)
And you'd never guess
she's a small-town renegade
from the way she mutters about the traffic
in places that aren't here.
But you might believe her stories
about the ruthless merchants in Africa
if you saw her garage sale tactics in action.
From convertibles and motorcycles
to a gold, lumbering Suburban,
from school plays and sweetheart dances
to three kids, a husband, and a dog,
she's come a long way.


declaration

I am friedfoodcaffeinated
koo koo kachoo
American teen, German convertible
(red)
I am drivin' barefoot
rollin' stop signs

down
with
the
man?

I am earthzenelemental
water, please
unmasked morning
(face)
I am mismatched gluttony
stare all you want

down
with
the
model?

I am dirtytwistedugly
don't look at me like that
insomniac symphony
(skin)
I am the survivor
no worries, love

down
with
the
master?

I am.


fully loaded

fatal breech birth
of this sunken-eyed sickness
come to sing the praises
of a fragile drunken goddess
heretic hands
broken throat
      (have I ever
been this
            p a l e?)
my face is a
fully loaded
gun
(pull the trigger, would you?)
my body is a
fully loaded
love machine
(pull the plug, would you?)
heretic throat
broken hands
      (have we ever
been this
            p a l e?)