all day long
I vacillate. build intention.
maybe I move
a couple steps forward
or skirt one craving
and I applaud myself for days.
my knees get some desperate rest
or my body gets water
but it’s followed by immediate
withdrawal.
indulgence,  glutton
three walks:
four coffees, twelve cookies
and noticing the worst
of your core qualities loudly.


cherished: my leisure,
my habits, beloved
hermeticism and my ability to
make believe;
find  double meaning
of everything. I’m really just walking,
compulsive ambivalence.
I shrug.
sip the coffee

let the wind take me.

“MDD”

all day long
I vacillate.  I set intention—
maybe I move a couple steps forward
or skirt one craving
and I applaud myself for days.
my knees get some desperate rest
or my body gets water
but it’s followed by immediate
withdrawal.
indulgence,  glutton
three walks:
four coffees, twelve cookies
and picking a fight.


cherished: my leisure,
my habits,beloved
hermeticism and my ability to make believe–
find  double meaning
of everything. I’m really just walking,
compulsive ambivalence.
I shrug.
sip the coffee

let the wind take me.

now I am
in Philadelphia,
with an Access card to
buy toilet paper. .
I am dog sitting; house sitting for
money in Queen Village,
and I spend the days
drinking their hazelnut flavored
Keurigs,
sneaking their chocolates.
using their washer for my own
heavy blankets,
and walking the pit bull
without the choke chain
she gave me.
I observe the doors of people
in Society Hill:
clean black or mahogany
with the numbers painted on
them or in brass next to their
outdoor lanterns, their empty
flower boxes soon to be leaking
zinnias, petunias, geraniums.
soon to be fingered,
picked by me.
I am obsessed with the material
possessions of others
and knowing I’m no good
marked this place for
later:

we should rob them.

begin to circle the area
with the pit bull
understanding clemency only
gifted to the few who
have smiles like
little sunshines
and white skin;
tanned but porcelain
otherwise.

“doors #1”

I carried little pieces of God
everywhere;
whittled pine needle,
robin feathers,
a baby garnet for luck.
besides the
straws, I liked
natural things; Earth

to touch during
sedentary moments
quell the fidget inside.
today, a pint-sized celestite
entertained my skittish fingers.
it was a part of a larger cluster,
but I liked the cyan sparkle
so I broke off a piece.

I am surrounded by repentance,
men with wolfish outlines.
“allies.”

I nod when they say
they feel a guilt greater
than their desire. I relate
having consumed an entire
night’s portion .before walking here.
when they want my approval,
they usually begin with things
like
I took advantage of her.

I cross my legs.

I am wearing brown tights, brown
heeled boots and a cream turtleneck
sweater dress.  my hair is
short, uncombed and strange.
I am mostly plain.
save light blush, mascara and
chapstick..
it is important as a woman
to catalog what you were wearing
and how you generally look
in any moment.
also I had gained some weight.

 when you tell the audience the story
they can gauge their reaction better.
were you homely, girl?

I was neither homely nor
exceptional, a frozen
brown blob blending
into the cream walls
and watching the blue chips
of nail polish flake onto
the floor. as he spoke
of his life of
trespassing,
I found my hands
to be urgent.

and remembering the whisper
of the woman who shushed
the last girl who shared her rape
in a room just like this,
I watched a speck of light blue
crystal join the floor.
saw the red swell and trickle
into a dot capping my finger:
blood     and   watched
the tiny celestite break.

“fury”

under my therapist’s guidance,
I switch chairs to talk
to my inner predator.
now now listen to the guilt,
  it’s talking,

I decided to have some boundaries;
lined the edges of my bed with
geranium and lilac threads,
lined the sills with limonium.
my tub dripped nightl:,
altar of salt and lavender.
watched my toes glide to the surface
by a dozen votives.
forgot everything.

my entire winter
was littered with
shards of celestite
and low violin.
I could see the sky when I wanted
from my dining room table
or on a brisk walk
to pick up oranges and Earl Gray
for the morning.
but I mostly stayed in my
warm hole.
rediscovered medicine in prayer
and herb and
open mourning.

on walks, I held
one shout in my throat
in an effort to
pacify myself.
protect myself from myself.
it’s so tiring;
anorexia with
insatiable mouth.
planned outfits.
a  mandible chest.
I return to the chair,

I plan to spend the year
fat, fed…
replete in web
and feast.

“gestalt”

I carried little pieces of God
everywhere;
pine needle,
robin feather,
baby jasper,  besides the
straws, I liked
natural things; Earth
to touch during
sedentary moments
to quell the fidget inside.
today, a pint-sized celestite
I broke off from a bigger
cluster on the windowsill
to twirl in my skittish fingers. 

I am surrounded by repentant men
who have a wolfish outline.
my “allies.”
fellow addicts.
I nod when they say
they feel a guilt greater
than their desire.
they usually begin with things
like
I took advantage of her
and I cross my legs.

I am wearing brown tights, brown
heeled boots and a cream turtleneck
sweater dress.  my hair is
short, uncombed and strange
and I am mostly plain.
I wear light blush, mascara and
chapstick but I don’t spend much
time about it.
it is important as a woman
to catalog what you were wearing
and how you generally look
in any moment.
also I had gained some weight
before I  rediscovered
starvation.
when you tell the audience the story
they can gauge their reaction better.
were you homely, girl?

I was neither homely nor
exceptional, a frozen
brown blob blending
into the cream walls
and watching the blue chips
of nail polish flake onto
the floor. as he spoke
of his life of
trespassing,
I suddenly found my hands
to be urgent,
needing my full attention.

and remembering the whisper
of the woman who shushed
the girl who shared her rape
in a room just like this,
I watched a speck of light blue
crystal join the floor,
watched the tiny celestite break.

“fury”

———

“it’s hard to talk about anything anymore
when half your family is dead. it just wells
inside of me.”

“The tears?’

“The internecine speech that dwells within
just waiting to be handed off
to the next offense.“

under my therapist’s guidance,
I switch chairs to talk
to my inner predator.
now now listen to the guilt,
  it’s talking,
learn where all the trouble started.

I decided to have some boundaries
with the universe;
lined the edges of my bed with
geranium and lilac threads,
lined the sills with limonium.
my tub dripped often:
an altar of salt and
lavender sage.
carpet burns and I
watched my toes glide to the surface
by a dozen votives.
forgot everything.

my entire winter
was littered with
shards of celestite
and low violin.
I could see the sky when I wanted
from my dining room table
or on a brisk walk
to pick up oranges and Earl Gray
for the morning.
rediscovered medicine in prayer
and herb and
open mourning for my karmic retribution,
rectified,
suddenly deserved.
       
amethyst in my sock drawer and jasper
near the lamp, I held
one shout in my throat
in an effort to
pacify myself.
protect myself from myself.
it’s so tiring;
anorexia with
insatiable mouth.
planned outfits.
scent so close
you begin to change shape
without notice.
you begin to grow a
mandible chest
I return to the chair,
the following week,
I have a plan.
she nods expectantly.


I plan to spend the year
fat,
fed,
replete in web
and feast.

“gestalt”

First it was my right hand, then my left. Would go dead in the middle of the night. It would last a minute. Then a couple minutes. Now four whole minutes. They say it’s a compression nerve. My elbow hurts. I have to clench and unclench my fist over and over to get it to works.

Though sometimes I am asleep on it. Sometimes I am. But most of the time it is laying flat next to me. What do I do with my time? Walk for hours. Hours. Twisting straw in hand. Thinking. There are great moments of collapsing on the bench. Tears. I pet dogs. I talk to the dogs and their owners. Things are better now.

I just write little notes in my phone.

I spend some nights screaming in a pillow.

I spend some days mulling over whether i love you was enough.

“I  knew he was going to die before I left Virginia.”

The last words I said to my dad were I love you and everyone tells me it’s enough.

At night I wander the halls and talk to him; ask if he’s proud his daughter is a successful con artist.

I picture him laughing, cigarette in hand, Wild Irish Rose in glass. 

My hands are becoming crippled and my memory is fuzzy so I figure 

just 

better

fucking 

write it.

My aunt was the 12th dead family member.

It is not great to have such strong superstition in a cursed family so we begin the chant again:

be careful what you say, but more importantly be careful what you think.

They told me to write it faster than you live it but I would rather walk.

“The 13th dead”

the kind that takes whole

neighborhoods

hostage and

leaves the dismayed

picking through the remains

to find their charred family albums

while their babies are off

staring at ash clouds

that block the sun

holding an empty leash

     and at such a

      young age

finally understanding

accidents, permanence,

their environment’s

severity and no exits.

you always remind them

there are no exits.

“grief”

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑