More recent musings

#1
Even your birthday cannot save February. It is an utterly dark and cold abyss of infinite sleepiness, where colds and flus threaten to take you as their meal, and a small part of you craves it, for it would be a respite from the days of monotonous work. It is a galaxy-sized tunnel, the kind with no Wi-Fi. You will make it out. You know you will see the sun again, yet the despair within you, remains within you. 

February is dead trees, icy streets, and winds that bring down telephone poles. But your birthday is a bright light in darkness this year. Actually, a few strokes of good luck and a general upward trajectory in your life form a string of dazzling lights that blink on and off within you, lighting up your insides, in the dark of February, in the dead of winter, in the cold and indifferent landscape of the east coast. 

This year’s birthday is very different from last year’s, when you caught COVID and laid in bed defeated for a week. This year you move in with your partner. The day before your birthday, you pack your things and dump them in the rented uHaul. You say goodbye to your four roommates and to the house you spent the past four years in. 

You think about the time the plaster on the kitchen ceiling rained down on your head, or the time the wind ripped the skylight out of your bedroom and carried it away, leaving you exposed to the cold winter elements before your landlord hammered a block of wood on top of the opening. You remember the time one of your roommates was a convicted murderer, and how he cooked steak every morning until you kicked him out for stealing. 

You think of the beer bottles piled up on the back porch, and the dangerous basement you tried so desperately to keep your cat out of, in vain. You think, thank you for the wild stories (you always liked to pretend you were a writer), thank you for giving me independence for a cheap price when I needed it most. You think, now I am off to keep growing, keep growing. On your thirty-sixth birthday, you wake up in your new house, next to the man you love. 

You really love this man. You’re the kind of in-love that puts butterflies in your tummy. The kind of in-love that makes you stare at him in awe until he looks at you funny. But you keep staring, drinking in his face, because it gives you an endorphin rush. The kind of in-love where, when your bodies touch, you feel safer than you’ve ever felt. The kind of in-love that puts him on a pedestal, for better or worse, despite your wisdom by this age not to do such things. The kind of terrifying in-love that scares the shit out of you. 

You wake up next to this man, in your new house. You do not own this house (you are renting), but it is still your house. You have two bedrooms, three bathrooms, a den, a large kitchen, and a balcony. Your favorite part, though, is the view of the bay. You wake up early in the mornings to catch the train to the city. It’s freezing outside and the wind is brutal, but the view of the sun rising above the water, splashing the sky in tones of pink takes your breath away. 

It is difficult to go to work these days. The commute isn’t as quick as you hoped. Your workdays are as long as they always have been, yet they seem longer. You realize it is because, for the first time in your life, you want to be home. You resent the schedule that keeps you away for twelve hours a day. But spring is coming. It’s at the end of the galaxy-sized tunnel. Flowers will come to life. Warmth will arrive, slowly at first, and then all at once. 

Spring is renewal, birth, creation. Winter is death, endings, and clearing space for what’s to come. It feels fitting now, the cold air that bites your fingertips and turns your nose bright red. It is dark, and time moves slowly. You think, align yourself with the season. You think, make moves and prepare for change. The string of lights inside you brighten and dim, brighten and dim. In the moments of clarity, you are grateful for all that you have. 

#2
Can people really change?
Vague, big question. Yes and no. Yes to an extent.
That part of us that makes us I- the soul. Does not change
Environment, reflexes change. Wisdom is what you take from your experiences and memories. 
You can change aspects of you if you put in the work. It takes a long time and maybe there is no finish line. But eventually you change. However most people will not put the work in and will not change. The work has to be constant. 
Parallel, you cannot help but change. You are not exactly the same as you were 10 years ago. 
How do you define who you are? By your job? Your opinions? Those things can and do change.
But the essence of you- can that change?
Even ppl who better themselves, they’re fighting against a current. So are they changed, or are they disciplined? And is there a difference?

#3
A woman, middle-aged, sweeps outside her house. Her broom makes swish sounds against the sidewalk. Four houses down, a man plants in a small garden along the edge of his house. His shovel crunches in the soil. A woman walks into her house. She pulls from her vape as she opens her door and that second of disconnect sends her keys to the floor. Jingle-splat. A train passes a few blocks down. It moans long and deep. Cars pass, swooshing the air in their paths. The woman with the broom is still sweeping. Swish swish. Vrooom vrooooooom! The wind carries the sound of a motorcycle. It sounds far away, and then farther away. A baby goo gaas as his father picks him up and carries him inside, speaking softly to him in a high pitched voice. The woman continues to sweep the sidewalk. She must feel very productive. Around the corner, a drill starts up. More cars carry on the wind. 
The train again, it’s deep honk warning us all of its presence. The sound of a wooden board hitting the floor, or maybe a hammer hitting a wooden board. The woman has stopped sweeping. She’s now leaf blowing the sidewalk. I see no leaves on her sidewalk. Door hinges creaking as they swing one way and then the other. A nondescript hum in the air, coming from nowhere, or somewhere. A hammer. On September 1st, people are very much up and alive. Not everyone- the ones with less desire are napping while the sun is still up, or lazily enjoying the insides of their homes. I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m sitting on the steps, listening to noise. I, myself, make no noise, except the sound of my breathing and occasional fidgeting. Soon it will be winter. The people here now will remain, exchanging t-shirts and pride for winter coats and a sense of duty. These are the ones who wake with the sun and sleep with the moon. They have innate desires to do things, to get things done. Their noise is the noise of the living. 
A woman walks her dog. He stops to sniff at the stairs where I sit. She tugs him and the tug makes a noise. The dog grunts and obeys. Another woman walks her dog in the opposite direction, again passing my steps. She speaks Spanish on the phone. I strive to be these people, these who are content to be productive, these who instruct society. I have days like them. Days when I have the energy and desire to clean my house, to create and maintain. Other days my energy is dangerously low, my desire boiling beneath the surface. It’s seven o clock in the evening. Crickets begin to chirp in unity. I appreciate being here to witness the first of their night noises. A bird sings from up above. Another car, the engine coughing as it struggles to find speed. I cannot see the sweeping woman anymore, but I know she’s still here, because she seems to have gone back to her broom. Swish swish.

#4
She loves me like
sun loves rain 
for growing flowers
who stretch their necks
for miles wishing to be
nearer to it.

My cat’s purrs
sound like an engine
in the little train that could
choo choo choo

when she purrs
it sounds like 
something enormous
coming from something
so small.

I love her
the way fish
love the ocean
for giving them
a place to call home.

I am her sun.
She is my ocean.
My light beams 
reflect off her surface
to create a glistening
only appreciated by

the wind that blows
the trees opposite
the lake in my favorite
campground 
where I went
with my parents 
when I was just
a kitten.

#5
What could have been and what will never be; it’s a non-thought, really; it’s the anti-matter in the reverse realm; what should have never been and what isn’t; it’s not for you to decide. What never happens is what happens in the never-world. Like the ultra-violet rays that you cannot see. Like the pause between words that you never said. It dances in the light at the end of darkness. 

#6
Did you know?
Poets lie.
Comedians too.

They tell stories
they call themselves
storytellers
and you drink it up
and you believe it is them

they are so wise
so sad, so angry
but did they really 
fight that bull? 
I googled him
he was never in the war
but he speaks of war.

War is all around us.

Poets get away with
anything
they call it
artistic integrity
and what is more
h o n o r a b l e
than spelling out
your measly life
onto paper?

and I , I write
the truth
and I write
experience.

That’s a lie.

Truth changes
like the seasons,
truth is there 
and then its not
and you’re left
wondering
was it a dream?

How bad was it,
really
when I couldn’t get
out of bed
couldn’t shower
couldn’t imagine
a world without me dead.

Whose story is that?
every poets story
and comedians too

and one comic,
she was surprised 
that others tell lies
on stage.
I can relate.

But it’s the lies
she tells about herself
that she thinks
are truth.

Poets are
drama queens,
they cannot get
enough!
of their own feelings

they think
they are the only ones

but they copy their favorites

and you can always tell
the last book I read
by the way I frame
my next story.

Stories are based on truth
but poems are….

the bottom of the ocean
where feelings
become tangible
at the bottom of the sea

you can pick them up 
smell them
put them up
to your ear
hear the screaming
sounds like waves
crashing
against your skull.

Liars have the most imagination.

But it’s not a lie!
It’s plausible deniability
you didn’t know
they would accept it as truth

and it’s their fault
they wanted to believe
so bad.

#7
How do you describe this feeling? I guess it’s when one is triggered by the sun, by the first vibrations of summertime, and one doesn’t know why, but one does, kind of, know why, sort of, but can’t really put a finger on it exactly. And one was expecting pleasure and excitement from the sun, but was surprised to feel fearful and uncomfortable. Of course, one is used to this. One immediately attempts to meditate. To let it pass. To acknowledge it will pass, like a wave in the ocean. And the thought of the ocean calms one; one loves the ocean, the beach, relaxation, and the ocean is holy, it anoints one. A wave in the ocean. That is an excellent way to calm down. I feel more calm myself, just writing this. But how strange this is, to be repelled by the feeling of summer! One has had so many fine summers. So many great summers. And yet…is it the sun that feels like a warm blanket, that reminds one of being high? Reminds one of the nights of bliss and ecstasy, swimming in pools high, nights out on the town high, young and reckless and so fucking high? It’s not that way anymore. But then, one must remind oneself, it never was that way. When one was young, there was steadily that creeping thought that one must surrender one day, that one would have to spend money on other things. And then, when one was older: now one is a loser, aren’t they, and the high has a bigger price, and one demands more of the high. And it was never really that way, too, because passing out isn’t exactly bliss, is it, and didn’t the darkness outweigh the light that whole time, and didn’t it get darker and darker? Yes. One knows all this. One is doing quite well now. One doesn’t look into the past wearing rose-colored glasses. One is happy now. One is happier now. One must understand the fleeting nature of happiness. So why the trigger? The sun is shining and it is beautiful. The park is packed for the first time this year. One can’t put a finger on the reason for the trigger, or one can, but not really. One knows, the key is to relax. The key is to breathe and to relax and to think of something else. Or, one could write about it.

More from the Vault: old poems

#1
I won’t be remembered after I die. It doesn’t bother me. I have no delusions of grandeur. I am a snowflake in an endless snowstorm that touches the ground and melts, or doesn’t melt and becomes an unrecognizable part of the whole.
I kept a diary when I was a teenager. I kept it to look back on when I grew older. But really I kept it so if I died, someone would find it and read my innermost thoughts, and would know how sad I was, and how inquisitive. It backfired when my sister read my journal prematurely, and she read that I wanted to kill myself, and she told my parents. I didn’t actually want to kill myself. I was a kid. I thought depression was beautiful. I yearned for it. Maybe I manifested it. Maybe I wasn’t born hating myself, like I tell people. Maybe something in the middle.
I’m not afraid to die, because I don’t think this world was made to live in forever. This world that is so violent. Ourselves who are so violent. If part of me became a ghost, if a thought in my mind lingered in the world after my death and became something tangible in the air, I hope it would be love.
I watched a documentary that flowers talk to each other. They communicate with each other like you and I, but in a language we can’t hear. After that I stopped putting my cigarettes out on trees. I stopped throwing my cigarette butts on the ground months before, but that meant I had to put out my cigarette somewhere before stuffing it in my pocket or a garbage can. I am ashamed to say many trees were burnt by me. I hope it didn’t hurt much. The tree is so large and the cherry on my cigarette so small. That’s a bad excuse. I don’t want to hurt things.
But I do hurt things. When there’s a bug in my sink, I tell it I’m sorry over and over as I wash it down the drain. I drown it. I don’t want to drown it, but I have to. It’s survival, it’s comfort. In this violent world, you need to be violent to survive.
I don’t like hurting people. I do hurt people, but not by design, not really. I think simply by existing I am hurting something else. I’ve made people cry. I’m sure l’ve made someone question their self worth. I can say that’s more on them than me. I can say that and half believe it. Now that l’m more free to love, free to not hurt, free of the H word that had me wrapped up in my own shit and filth for a while, and I didn’t die, now that I’m more free to love, I try my best. Loving others is easy, loving myself is not. I know my own dark secrets. I see behind my mask.
But I try anyway. I love who I might one day be, and who I was before I tried to love myself.
I can’t do much to save the world. I live in poverty. Poverty makes me a good person.
You can’t be rich and be good, not really.
You have to hold on to what you have then, and you become the system that kills and destroys, when all you want is to be comfortable. And is that so wrong? You need to protect yourself first, in this violent world, and if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you’d be a fool to take it out. I live in poverty, and I don’t have children, because I don’t have money for children, and so it was my choice not to have them. But was it really? It feels coerced. Babies remember you after you die. But I don’t mind being forgotten, not really. Life keeps moving. It keeps moving without you there.
If I become a ghost, I want to be the place you go to be at peace. I want to be the breeze that brings you back, just for a moment, to that carefree feeling of childhood. I want to be the wave you float on when you look up at the sun and cry for the people you love who aren’t doing well, or for yourself if you’re not doing well, and I want to be the wave after that, which wipes your tears away, salt water into salt water, and gives you a flicker of hope, and a brief respite from pain.
Isn’t that pretty? I want to be pretty, I want to be love, I want to be a ghost. Not this skeleton with guts and blood and shit and – and a dirty, dirty mind, filth, and horror and shame. I stuff beautiful words into my mouth and hope I become them. I stuff beautiful words into my mouth and I spit them out on you, all over you, and I hope you can feel the beauty. I spit out ugly words too, I spit them in front of your feet and I call them myself. I want you to think I am those foul things, and I want you to feel sorry for me. I want to be love, I want to be ugly, hideous love. I want to be a ghost. I want to be the thin line separating everything from nothing. I want to be the spit running down your chin. The spit that contains all the words in the world.
I’m not that afraid to be forgotten.

#2
I love going to work in the mornings. It gives me a reason to wake up. I love writing poetry that isn’t a depressing TMI trauma dump. I love the promise of tomorrow, even when I don’t want it. It’s always easier to quit. Aquariuses love to quit. We float around, understanding everyone’s perspectives, never getting attached. To an extent, if you believe that kind of stuff. But if we see both sides, which means we see no sides, what’s left to comfort us?
Witchy shit is the only shit that gives me an adrenaline rush anymore. Finding the magic in life is the only daydream I have anymore. I love pressing a button and deleting my entire poem. I don’t love sarcasm but I dip my feet in it. I’ve got a shit memory. They say depression causes memory loss, and memory loss causes depression. It’s a circle.
I love iced coffee and a muffin. I don’t care about my weight much. I don’t care about anything much. I consider exercising, but, l smoke. I should quit, but I don’t. Quitting an addiction is the only type of quitting an Aquarius won’t do. Sometimes I’m ashamed of myself, but that shame evaporates quickly. Italo Svevo wrote, “It was a good lesson, and it lasted the whole day.” Italo Svevo wrote a book about a man quitting cigarettes. Emotions are so fleeting, the good ones at least. The only constant is not being enough, not doing enough. The only constant is the weight of accountability.
I’m stuck, I’m always stuck. I spend my entire life getting stuck. Stuck in one hole, then stuck in another. There is no true victory, only more hurdles. That’s life! The hurdles are life! Victory is death! Not a great victory for some people. It’s a good joke, though. Very dark, very on brand. I try not to mention death in my poems. Everyone’s so afraid of it. Me, I trust that the afterlife can’t be any more fucked up than this.
I love ska music. It’s so fucking happy. My favorite ska band is the one that sings about smoking crack. I wish I could speak truth and be truth, but I’m only a mess of inconsistencies. Complexity gives way to hypocrisy. I love the layers and nuance of humanity. I love it because it’s a loophole to forgive myself.
I love reincarnation. If there is a next life, I want to be a bird. I want to ride the wave of the breeze over the ocean. Not the wave of anxiety humans ride. But I love angst. Angst gives meaning to life. I like meaning, it feels righteous. Aquarius Sun likes being righteous.
I don’t like endings. Endings are hard because they don’t really exist. If energy can neither be created nor destroyed, then we are all made of recycled parts. I can see the magic in that. The magic is in our close connection to the universe. The connection is that we are the universe. The magic is in the recycled bits.

#3
Happiness is a warm gun spitting bullets til l cum. Don’t stop, reload, nothing earned is nothing owed. Use me, beat me, drown me in my wetness. Let earth, air, water and fire be my witness. Shape-shift to my ex, shape-shift to my father, you are every man because you don’t really matter. I am the goddess you cannot conquer, you weep with shame at the sight of me. I’ve got your eyeballs in my dripping wet palms that dip inside and out of me. You plucked them out yourself because you thought that you could blame me. Moaning now, I’m cumming
now in a loop that is infinity.

#4
There is no better feeling than righteousness; like helping an old man down the subway stairs, then hopping the turnstile; like Robin Hood, helping the poor and fucking over the system, a statement to all who watch, the few in the subway, who barely pass a glance, because that is New York City courtesy.
I feel… powerful. I feel the power of freedom as I weigh my options, break down what is right and wrong, and what is right about what is wrong, and what is wrong about what is right and all the perspectives in between, and lastly choose which I care about, and which makes me feel bold, and which comes with consequences I can accept, because everything comes with consequences.
The most introspective artists always conclude that punk is a state of mind. I don’t have tattoos or plaid dresses and combat boots, but I feel punk as fuck when I leave onlookers scratching their heads asking “is she good or bad?” after I break a law while treating them with the utmost respect.
I felt punk as fuck when I snorted heroin too, but not as righteous. It’s hard to embrace freedom when you’re a slave to a demon that makes you kill yourself slowly and with zero self respect. But I still had a sense of humor, so I ripped my lines off the book Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman.
I don’t do that anymore, I survived that phase of rebellion by the skin of my teeth, by a hair of the bird that bit ya. I keep the demon at bay, sleeping inside its lair, inside my heart, which by the way
Happy Valentines Day to all the men with wives who still shoot their shot with me.
Regrettably you missed my twenties when I would’ve been down to play around. But I’m in my thirties now and I dont fuck with married men; it’s just basic respect.
If it was ever a phase, it stuck to me like glue. Distrusting authority, turned off by the majority, always rooting for the underdog, still so painfully self-aware, self-conscious, self-fulfilling prophecies of not amounting to much, not that I mind, I like the smallness of my life, it’s much easier to be free.
Now I wish to manifest calmness and contentment, with money that fills my pockets and allows me to eat and be free, that I make for myself easily….
but still waters aren’t for me, I prefer a raging sea. When floating calmy, I throw pebbles far out just to make waves and watch them make way back to me.
Happy Consumerism Day to my fellow aging punks, who understand that when I rant about the unethical principles of late stage capitalism, i’m not joking, and I am hypocrisy in human form, and I am beautiful and messy.
The air on my face feels good, and I am alert today, which comes in waves and although it’s unfortunate my alertness comes on a Tuesday, when I would rather be asleep, I’ll use this time to write poetry of all the things I wish to say, but forget to relay in pen, because often I am too sleepy.
If I wrote down the saga of my life, who would read it? Me.

#5
I’m sorry for leading you on, it’s just that……
well I had a great time with you the first and second time the third time I had fun too because I make things fun, and you were there too.
I don’t want to go out to lunch with you or go to your place anymore at least not for a while, it’s just that
I’ve been single for so long and now I need my alone time.

I hope you know,
I’m flirting with other people.
You were fun to flirt with at first but then you stayed the same and it got boring, didn’t it?
I did enjoy my time with you, because I allow myself to feel joy no matter where l am.
Very little to do with you.
This is not a break-up letter because we were never officially together.
This is a letter of resignation regarding our relationship that never really was, but possibly could’ve happened
if I didn’t get so easily bored, and remember I need my alone time.

Maybe in a few months
I’ll reach out again
and maybe we can hang out for a few nights in a row,
maybe we can even argue like a real couple.
Remember to keep it interesting this time.

I’m sorry I don’t want to hang out with you this weekend.
It’s just that I work all the time
and I don’t want to spend my free time with you.
No offense to you
I think you’re really hot and sweet
but we don’t have much in common
and you’re just a little boring and your favorite ice cream is vanilla and that really turns me off.

You should’ve started an argument or played hard to get.
You should ve bought me something big and special.
You should’ve known
I need my space.

#6
You are a 100lb robe; you weigh down the person who wears you.
But you are soft. You are made of chinchilla fur.
You are beautiful, striking even. You glow in the moonlight.
You are deceptively beautiful; from far away you look brand new,
but up close you are worn. Small stains and holes spread about you.

When I put you on, I feel warm and soothed, protected from the cold.
But when I wear you too long, I can no longer move. I am trapped in you.
I am bogged down on the floor, warm and protected and trapped by you.
I’m afraid if I don’t take you off now, I will lose the strength to get out of you.
But you are made of chinchilla fur.

Despite being thoroughly used,
I am captivated by the newness you project,
the way you deceive, the way you create an
illusion to everyone around you.
I love the dream you construct.
I want to sleep in your dream,
build a house upon it with a garden,
a dog, maybe a few kids.

I am naked under you,
and if I lost you, I would be vulnerable.
Utterly defenseless against the elements.
I need you to survive, but you are heavy and you are paralyzing me.
How did I live before?
Did I enjoy the rain beating down on my bare skin, soaking me?
Did I like the wind whipping at my back, giving me goosebumps, making me shiver?

I cannot remember much, I am too busy struggling to stand on my feet.
I want to stroke your softness, but I can no longer lift my arms.
It is a familiar softness, and I lay on the floor, dizzy and weak and trying to stroke you.

I’ve entered the dream without an escape plan.
The home I built has a lock on the door, and I don’t have the key.
You are a 100lb robe
and when I fall asleep in you, I wake up suffocating.

#7
I feel very small like an ant but weaker.
I cannot hold things ten times my size can’t even hold things a tenth of me.
I feel very small compared to the meteor
in my throat and the burning house on the bottom of my stomach right on top of my lady parts but I am no lady.
I am no lady.
I am no lady
I feel small
I am no ant
I am stuck to the side of a meteor
headed straight for me.
I am doomed.

#8
The Middle of Nowhere in Two Parts.

Part I: A short story.

In the middle of nowhere there is a fine art gallery. From the outside, fine art galleries look like every other building. Buildings here are short and brown and usually display a company logo in large brown letters across the top. I laugh and step out of a car, later to go up in flames (but not right now and I wasn’t there for that, anyway). I feel like a film noir star. I blow cigarette smoke toward passing cars. Have any of them gone to this short brown “FINE ART GALLERY”? Raindrops beat down on an over-sized umbrella. I twirl.

Part II: A short poem

In the middle of nowhere there is a fine art gallery
curated by a balding man
whose skin matches the brown lettering
displayed on his brown FINE ART GALLERY.
The grey room is his past, the white room is a dream.
He sometimes sleeps on a cot in the white room,
furnished with track lighting.
It is important for the white room to stay illuminated.
He does not enter the grey room, but wonders what it is made of.
He watches as his customers exit.
They look frightened except the strange ones
who spray graffiti on the walls.

About Nick (my love)

#1
I watch him through a sliding glass door. It’s dark and cold out here, but I’ve got my book and my smokes and my phone. He is sitting at a table, our table, talking to his laptop screen. There’s a girl on the screen, a coworker. I can’t hear what they say, but I know the gist. They’re complaining about work. The light inside is yellow and warm. He wears a hoodie, the one he always wears. He hunches over just a bit, his messy hair partially covering his eyes. I watch him through the door. It’s our door. He’s my man.

#2
I swim to the bottom of the ocean 
all the way  

d
 o
  w
    n

where the sun does not penetrate.
Where darkness spreads
like a blanket,
like the night sky,
and the stars are fish
and the fish are 
lightness in dark
like you.

I swim to find you,
a kept promise,
a whisper in the wind
you thought you heard
like when I said, 
I’d never leave you.
I swim past ghouls
with razor teeth, 
and fins that smack
smack   smack   smack
and eyes that look soulless
but we all have souls
and I’m in its mouth.

I wear a flashlight 
around my head
and I can see its insides,
I am its insides.
And that is when
I grow a mermaid tail
and the ghoul,
who is no ghoul,
whose eyes are soulless
but who is made of magic
SPITS me out – 

and I don’t look back
I only go deeper 
under water
moving faster now, 
looking for you.
I call your name
and it echoes in my ears,
but not out loud.
My voice cannot penetrate
the water that is not 
penetrated by light
that has become my air.

I’m a mermaid now
looking for my love.
I’m in a storybook
and the storyteller 
is a mother
and she’s reading
out loud
to her daughter
who dreams of lovers
finding each other again
and her mother says,
“the girl who is a mermaid
was unaware of one
Very Important Thing –
there is no bottom 
of the ocean.”

and when I arrive
at my destination —
which does not exist —
I begin
f
a
 l
  l
   i 
    n 
     g
through space, which
looks a lot like the sea.
It is dark
and the fish are stars
and the stars are on fire
and I think I hear
your voice.

You call my name
and it sounds like love
and I swim through space
to the sound of your voice.
It is music,
it is a guitar
and a whisper
the way you sing
when you are alone
barely audible against 
the simple chords of a guitar

and the whisper grows
into the beat of a drum
and it finds its way 
into my mouth
where it settles in my heart
thump   thump   thump —
where it becomes 
my heartbeat
and I know I am still alive.
And when I shout your name,
it comes out as rain.
I hang on to a droplet
it feels like a rocket —
as I hurtle through space
to the blue-green planet
that mirrors my eyes.

And when I land,
the flowers break my fall,
they are happy for the rain.
And there you are —
a flower.
The most beautiful
I’ve ever seen
and I say, 
I should have known
you’ve always been a flower
you’ve always
been a 
f l o w e r.

#3
On the first day the sun
won the fight against 
the cool air &
s h o n e
not beating down, but 
dancing
down to the pavement, down 
to the dead grass which
was wet from the day before
but dried now, 
basking in the glory
of the great yellow ball —

I asked my man to take me
take me to Red Bank
that cute little town in
N e W  J e R s E y
the state we all love 
to shit on, but to me 
it is the Garden State!

Me being from Staten Island,
and working in Manhattan — 
that grimy, shitty, smelly
city, city of dead dreams
and men sleeping on streets
and children selling candy 
on the s u b ways
and no one buying 
a piece from them,

but all wondering,
where is your mother?
Is she on the next train car,
is this a deception?
The city where you cannot trust
the poor little boy selling chocolate!

But the garden state
get a bad rap,
and I asked my man
take me to Red Bank

and my man, who prefers
the indoors, and is afraid
of crowds of people
but doesnt much prefer
nature, either,

he is a good sport
and he loves me
and he took me to Red Bank.

In the car we sang along
to Of Montreal
we took turns
knowing the words to the songs

the sun stayed 
d a n c i n g
while we ate barbecue 
and talked about 
basketball and philosophy
and I asked,
remember the first time we came
to Red Bank?

I asked, how long were we dating?
He said, a day, and I laughed
because really it was 
about a few weeks
and I said, remember
what we did in the car?

of course he did.
& I said, how
did you respect me?

My man is sweet.
He knows my love
for him is
UNbreakable
and its true
its true, its true.

We walked by the shops
and went into a record store.
I bought a book of poems 
Bukowski’s early works —
and I brought my camera
took photos of him
by the water
while a group of old men
played folk songs
with a stand up bass

and on the way home
he was anxious, and 
turned inward
as often happens,
and I read
Bukowski poems
out loud the whole way
h o m e.

#4
It’s 9:30am. I crawl back into bed. I push myself into his body. I listen to his breathing. I like when he snores. It’s confirmation that he’s asleep, comfortable and resting on some level. Although I don’t know, and cannot control, his dreamworld. Given his anxiety in the waking world, his dreams are certainly as bad. But sometimes he has good dreams. I wish for him a dreamless sleep, where light and time cease to exist, where egos completely check out. There are no dreamless sleeps. A dreamless sleep is death. So I wish for him to have many dreams and to forget them all upon waking. I listen to his breathing. His snores. I once told him, before I knew him well, that a man who snores is the worst offender. How do I sleep next to that? I asked him if he snores. He said he didn’t know. It sounded like a lie. If he snores, he would know. Surely an old girlfriend would have told him. (That was before I knew the extent of his eccentricities.) As it turns out, he does snore. But it does not ruin my sleep. It’s more subtle, sporadic. He doesn’t sleep well. I like to know he’s resting.
I wake up at 7:30am. Early, even for me, but I had fallen asleep at 8pm the night before. I had taken a few hits of a joint. It absolutely blasted me. Intense anxiety, a headache, not a good time, and on top of that I was miserably tired. Hence, 8pm bedtime. I check my phone to make sure it’s a reasonable hour to leave the bed. I am alone in bed. He is on the couch. His legs hurt at night. This is not an exaggeration. His shakey legs are very real. I wonder what causes it. I don’t dare wonder it out loud. I’m a laid back person, but I’m also a woman, so I have rules. I don’t mind if he ends up on the couch, as long as he starts the night in bed with me. He complies. He loves affection as much as I do, he’s just strange about it. But in his sleep he makes room for me on his chest. He puts his arm out for me to slink into. It means a lot. Why? It’s reflex. Reflex for a loved one. 
I get up at 7:30am and make coffee. He wakes up around this time too. A feather falling to the floor can wake this man up. Is he ever really sleeping? Only when he snores. So he’s up, because I woke him up, because he was never really sleeping. Not a deep sleep, anyway. He hugs me. He asks if I’m okay. Am I sure I’m ok? Do I feel sick? I wonder what dreams he had. I’m ok, I say. He heads to the toilet to pee, where I join him, wrapping myself around his body. Sleep on the bed, I tell him. It’s easier for him to sleep on the bed when I’m not there. He obliges. I sit at the kitchen table, sipping my coffee, scrolling Reddit. Eventually I go out for a smoke. Time passes. I crawl back into bed with him. Wrap myself around him. Listen to his breathing.

#5
You are…
unapologetically intricate
you are too apologetic
you are a multiverse 
or is it that you are
unbothered by continuity
a map of contradiction
a bunch of spirals that are 
everyone, and your hypocrisy
is a brilliant surprise
a breath of fresh air
a reminder to stop trying
so hard to be linear.
You are so groovy, you are
so wavy baby, you feel
like purity in my hand.
How many secrets do you
hold, can I have them?

#6
I was running to – 
a future I could only half believe in –
I was running from a fire.
The flames licked at my feet, 
but I could not feel them – 
I was running from defeat,
I was numb from compartmentalizing, 
I was just another silhouette 
against the backdrop
of a great big world – 
just a small silhouette
against the monstrous backdrop of–

earth, you are earth, 
you are soil, my life grows
within you, around you,
like vines up an old building
we are beautiful together.

How can I protect you –
my beating heart, how can I 
save you from the misery of 
Purgatory? – where we breathe
life and death together, and
you are an angel landed right here
for all this time and watched,
succumbing to fear, but not
succumbing – standing tall
not intimidating but timid?

The ones who found you first
they didn’t see your wings, 
(did you hide them, then?)
they let you go and I found you – 
you gave me your hand 
and in your palm you held
Renewed Purpose, and you
gave it to me freely –

Oh, let me guard you
from illness, from tragedy
how I wish to release your fear —
and you’ve reached forty years,
but still you are a child, 
a petrified child

you haven’t gotten used to the madness-
how have you survived so long in Purgatory?

I’m here now, to save you
(Oh how I wish I could)
the way you saved me from
my own misery (you’d deny
such things) the way you 
save me when you look at me
and say you love me

I feel whole, like when ocean
touches land I feel whole
like the world- 
before the ticking of the clock –
before life and death – 
when everything was still –
I feel whole, the way I felt
a long time ago, when the past
was so small, and the future so 
large, so all-encompassing.

My loyalty to you, the one 
who showed me his wings –

My loyalty to you, is thick as
blood that runs through our veins 
and spills on fertile soil, thick as 
bile which leaps up our throats
and reminds us of the 
tick tick ticking of time, 
of birth and loss, intertwined,
a ballet in a burning inferno

and you’re the ballerina
so fragile, my child-like angel,
pirouetting through Purgatory
and weeping – for all of humankind
weeping for life and death alike,
and I weep with you, 
and I weep because
how can I protect you? 

Hand-in-hand, that’s how
I’ll save you (but oh, you don’t 
need saving!) Partners in a dance  
against the evils of the world
(that’s how you’ll save me) –
and we will breathe in Love
and we will reject Hate
and we will cry, and pirouette
against the flames. 

BACK to basics.

Intro: Hi! It’s been many years since I posted. Many things have happened since my last post. Ups and downs. Currently I feel quite on top of the world, having tackled some serious problems in my life, learned how to deal with emotions in a healthy way, met a guy I feel deeply in love with, moved a few times, most recently into a gorgeous place with my man, had some jobs, I’ve got one that I quite like now, etc etc. I’ve tried to make different blogs over the years but they never stuck. I would forget my username. I would forget that I made them altogether. But this one always stayed glued in my mind. My first blog and really, my only one with more than 2 posts.

I still write shitty poetry, some short stories, blurbs. I’ve got nowhere to put them. So I am back here. Part of me wants to delete my old posts. Are they too revealing? Of course they are. But I’ve always loved revealing too much of myself on the internet. I want there to be glimpses into my mind when I am gone one day. That might be dark but it’s also…inevitable? Nobody gets out of here alive and all that.

So I am back for now to place my writing here. Also, is Gabfrab still in the building? Shout out!

I don’t like picking up
at midnight. I’m an adult.
I get my drugs during the day.

an old forgotten poem

Sometimes I dissect the
meaning of things; forget
the blushing cheeks of the
letter S, that charming sing-
song voice of C.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Can’t count the distance be-
tween two charging thoughts
like high school football players
running towards each other
with a vague sense of
RESPONSIBILITY and
without reason.

evolution //
revolution //
the constitution //

We tie words together
SIDE-BY-SIDE in a string of
handsome lullabies.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Only the nuance of dancing
syllables
and referenced equality –
better that than anything else

though discrimination sounds
mighty pleasant to the ears
wish it meant something
entirely different.

I don’t think I know
what I’m talking about.

Only write so that my fingers
dance, not much to say only want
to feel muscles move, hear the
sweet tune of crushing ailments
cursing what-ifs.

That terrific acting performance
done by each insecurity slipping
off of the tongue, down to my long
thin fingers with a bouquet of flowers
at the end.

I do not know what this poem
is about.

Only know what I meant to say //
but got carried away //
in the poetry play. //

Not a complaint, oh surely
this is a nod to the dreamers
who wish on the brightest star
scream nothing much into a
blank sheet of paper just to
send it off in a red dress —

flowers blooming

petrified petal from the flower once
grew in her mother’s womb
dipped in honey and nectar-
infused with morning dew – a treat
for the bees–

falls.
spinning in the air
like a dancer pirouettes but
clumsier
a clown in a tutu
playing slapstick for the kids.

the past is a place
filled with secrets.
it is: a snowy wonderland of lost footprints.
do not tread with caution
better to leave what’s forgotten forgotten.

Or

the petal makes landing
on ground without sound
crushed under the weight
of something.

Pay Day

On pay day
I read poetry
listen to the crooning
tunes of decades past.
Find classic novels hidden
in dusty cabinets and
really relate.

Most days
I do not care
to open my eyes.
Too cold for a jog and I
do not like the rain.
These days my pants
sag with empty pockets
except
for the dust of dirty
tissues.

But
on pay day
New York water
soaks my socks
drowns the spaces
between my toes
when I splash.

Don’t care much about
the dirt, only
the feeling.

I quote Maya Angelou
on these days
shop for exotic
teas with odd
fervor
research romantic
European getaways.

Wonder
what it might be like
to be a heroine
of great value
like the feminists
in story books and
on the history channel.

Wonder if money
concerns them.

It is for sixteen days
that I make plans.
So much to see
so much to do on
pay day. And so

I listen to old music
wait for the familiar
steps of a woman
who
delivers the checks.

Today

Maya sings
through the bars
of her cage

carrying the
sound through
my own walls
of existence

splashing in the
New York rain.

Tomorrow…

Dear Me,

I hate you.

God Must Be a Man

The doomed fate of woman leaks from her
each month. Lying on her back, she takes
it again; the pulsing of her crotch not
exploited by man but by god. Each month
she takes it standing up, cooking dinner,
all during her full-time job. She becomes
used to the pain, ready for what will come.

And if not? If it does not come — that’s a worse
fate for a modern woman! Hardly making
enough to pay the rent, she does not think of
raising a child unless it is a daydream safe
and far away. She has rights after all,
to birth control and abortion —
but no right to halt the fated war that
prompts enemy blood to flow through the
rocky creeks of her vagina.

Religious folk and submissive men, the
sympathetic souls, bless their hearts,
are bestowed with false information —
they will tell you, it is a gift.

Menstruation is not a gift. Is it a gift
when one animal kills another?
Is it a gift when the baby bird falls
from its nest? To be road kill
on a hot August afternoon? Is it good,
simply because it is natural? Nature is
cruel and unforgiving and

God must be a man. Only a man would think
to trap the feminine in a cycle of self-
pity and contempt. He must be a small man –
they are more likely to use tricks.

I am a woman. My blood is as beautiful
as stinging nettle. It smells as sweet as
the thorns of a rose. No doubt it is natural,
binding, sad, forever enduring until the
last woman on earth drops to her death
(and let’s hope that does not happen soon.)