January 5, 2014 and we
have arrived in
North Philadelphia.






it is the sun streaming through my
bay-sized sliding door windows
and the white capped mountains
framed within them
that I will miss most
in winter.
but there is more to voids
than photographic memory and
today I have
a piece of paper and
a dozen dead things wilted
in their vase
to remind me.


there is a touch of red
sprinkled around the glass
that browns and sets as dry
on the sill in
my small uncurtained bedroom that
I pace
when I have too much on my
mind and today they

remind me

life is a patient rot
to tomb, a gauntlet and
fluid so I  better keep

life is a patient
gut to get to
wound     it was April
on Earth Day when I wrote
My Brother Is Dead
in the back of a notebook I would never
look at again.
it would be the thing thrown away
to make room as I packed the car
two years later in the most frigid
December, my partner,
the weather, the frost of us and
I was in my big brown jacket
that absorbed me in
synthetic down and
I’m twirling the stem of a
decaying feather
of a real dead sparrow in my pocket,
the lyrids
are crowning across Colorado as
I am responding to
a nod, someone asking
was he your only brother?


I repeat the question in my head.


yes, he was my only brother.
it is much easier to disappear

but the house moved with
me;  from freeze to open
like an unattended mortuary
moved to resurrect itself
after years of
neglect and

did you know,
the bones given a soft lick
will sparkle white
  like fresh-caught ivory
and once it feels the brush of
will file any joint to tip
with tooth
and gore the things that touches 

it, that holds it
near to chest or
safely in its palm?

as it shreds the flesh from
crown to feet,
someone says to me,
with sincerest sympathy

and I fall into a fog.
I repeat it in my head:


was he your only brother?


as I pass a trashcan,
fumble   make room in my bag
for lipstick.


“the sympathy card”

consult the oracle again

wear what you want,
let these animals
control themselves
my tiny ball of citrine says
I put on my cat suit
and go for a walk
to catch tan in the new
big sun.

  it was a long winter
of regression, needs unmet
and anchored in self by
a weighty repression,
lamps and the length of
my ire stretched, permanent,
coming undone on your pillow
where you wept in peace
until I charged back in
costumed in tank.

I’ve blown the tea lights out;
my presence is altar,
sit naked in the eyeline of the fan and
spools of smoke from bamboo incense
crown my head.
I am showered,
manicured, my skirt is barely an inch of
fabric  containing my
pubic bone or buttox
so they’re stuck to me
like sweat hot salt sticks
dripping down my skin.
I dab some tiger’s eye oil and
jasmine on my wrists,

brush their arms with
my nails, cut through centers,
stop absentmindedly to change song
and let
their thighs press my thighs,
their forearms hit mine.
it’s the invitation I am waiting

there are
ambulances wailing all over town
carrying victims of stroke
with blood rushing upward
forming an arrow,
the fletching pointing to their throat.
they feel the beat of wings
before they feel
my hands wrap their larynx
and the first thing they tell me

you’re full of secrets.


The Blue Book

we lack vision.
we just paint our nails black,
and dress like witches,
talk shit;
start shit for derision.
and we keep turning to our men
for forgiveness
when we should be
swallowing them.

sometimes things just go away
like missing pieces


and love?
I want this thing gone

so I can be alone with my tea
and good ideas

January 4 2020

“My journaling is unreliable,” I tell her.
‘What do you mean?” she smiles, bright, feels unperformative but am I naive?
“I mean my journals are as cryptic as my thoughts. I’ve been sketching trees again.”
“Are you keeping a food log?”
“No,” I say sharply.
I want to talk about the trees but decide to change the subject altogether.
“The power went out twice in four days on blocks around me.”
She nods, anticipating there is more. I am openly superstitious and am careful.
“I think it’s weird because there have been no storms and it’s only thirty five degrees.”
“Are you worried you’re power will go out?”
I shrug.
“I don’t know what I’m worried about. It’s just the only thing I noted in my journal so far.”
“It’s interesting to see what it is you write down, isn’t it?”
A man once called me perfunctory, flat. I think he’s right.
“I ate an entire carton of Oreo’s last night.”
That’s what she had been waiting for.

January 3, 2020

  1. I will continue to focus on morning meditation.
  2. When I eat too much, I will forgive myself and try again.
  3. I find tension between people unbearable and often try to insert humor to break it.

I write carefully so I can read it years from now: the act of naming things.

And then I attempt to sketch a succulent in the margins but it’s sloppy and I decide it’s better if I mourn.

January 2, 2020

Yesterday was fruitless. I drank too much coffee, now, and have decided to add weed to temper which has led me here in the middle of Fourth and Christian by noon and I am stumped. I think I should check the time but I know what time it is.
“It is 12:02.”
An elderly woman passes me but makes no gesture towards me so I assume she didn’t hear me declare the time out loud.
“How long will I do this?’
And a man says, “Excuse me.”
I am too high to engage.

It is 5:57 and I haven’t eaten and I am on my second walk. The weather is 37 degrees and the power has gone out on one block. I am taken by this block. In a stupor, mouth agape, I gaze up at the streetlights. It is only this one block that I have found. I am high again but emboldened.
“Excuse me,” I march up to two men talking. “Is this power only out on this block?”
“Eh, I don’t know, I was just texting Mikey over on Glean to see if they have power. I think it’s a couple of us.”
They eye me like I’m a new hot appetizer and I smile.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes, over there,” I gesture. “We have power, I was just curious. There’s been no storm.”
They nod but don’t engage any more turning to each other and continuing their conversation like I have stepped aside. But I have not.
sometimes things just go away.
“Take care,” I head towards Glean.

January 1, 2020


I had woken up early having gone to bed early and I sat sketching in the margins, a tree with its leaves falling, kind of dancing around an otherwise prosaic phrase
sometimes things just go away
like missing pieces

 I had no plans the night before and I had no plans today. I know you can’t just sit and listen to a clock tick but here I was, passing hours, staring at a phrase. And it ticked like that,

sometimes things just go away

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑