I didn’t want you to move away. It was hot on the subway but bearable, and the tequila from last night made my skin feel translucent. Your blue plaid shirt touched my arm for the first time and shot a bolt of energy into my body. I didn’t see your face because your head was looking down. What were you thinking? The train moved along and your shirt rubbed against my skin every so often. It kept me warm, like the hot sun that moments ago launched rays of fire onto our vessels. You never tried to stop our contact, and I wondered if you noticed at all. I tilted my head towards you and closed my eyes. Did you know, I drank too much last night? Did you know, my inhibitions lessen every day? Did you know, the young lovers across from us push my head closer to your shoulder? When you stood up, I stared at your face. Your top lip is just as big as your bottom lip and it looks like a heart. It’s sweet, like your shirt. I rode the train to 28th Street and passed you at the door.



May 29, 2013

I think, I need that protein.
I think, I feel like a stack of bones.
Drip down my chin and
tear skin.
I think, I need that mucus
on two old pillows
stained, naked
a representation of
a stack of bones.

What is so large in the cerebrum
is so small on sheets
dirtied with tobacco
slippery without warning signs
nothing but oil now.
Water, mucus, protein
immeasurable emptiness
rotten peach pit
wrapped in guts
leaking intestines.

Without form it is booming
angry at my universe
stack of shivering bones
sucking on this rotten peach
once the casket of a small worm
who tried to live off its succulent juices
but was trapped instead
in sinking slime.

Dead Worm forms inside me
wraps itself around leaking intestines
Dead Worm cries.
I can’t help you.
I’m sorry I ate you.
I’m sorry I’m leaking acid
all over your tiny carcass.
I’m sorry you tried so hard
when you should have known better.

I need protein.
but the mucus doesn’t listen.
They are all too happy to leave
the stack of bones.
It’s no place to live
no place for a child
too many natural disasters
and they just put up government housing
filled with dead worms.
Deadbeat dead worms
wrapped around leaking intestines.

A slimy rotten pit lives
in government housing
next door to a dead worm
wrapped around leaking intestines.
It was once a lovely fruit but
everything kills time.

Lately I’ve been getting the newspaper
and not reading it.
I always plan on reading it but when I try
I cannot seem to piece the letters together
into a word and then a paragraph
about the new political scandal
or celebrity sighting
or how much nicer Brooklyn is getting.

When life is picking at my skin
analyzing every insecurity
talking to strangers in hopes they like me
racking my brain for something decent to say when someone asks
And what do you do?

Current events just aren’t important
when I’m standing in front of a mirror crying
just to watch myself cry
because you’re only pretty
if you’re pretty when you cry.
What do you do?

There is an old newspaper in my bag.
It’s easy to read old news.
Hindsight plays god
to today’s truths
becoming yesterdays opinions.

I tell my right opinion of yesterday’s news to a boy
and he likes me.
I spray perfume on my neck and he kisses me.
Spraying perfume can sometimes avoid small talk and asking things like
Where are you from?
Do you come here a lot?
What do you do?

I sometimes read the paper
but mostly it just adds weight on my shoulders
when it’s sitting in my bag
these days.

Morning Commute

May 13, 2013

Sunglasses to hide your eyes 
In the morning
And a cigarette to hide
Your lips
And your nose just breathes.

Colors in the morning are darker
Like the bedroom.
Colors hurt when you’re not 
Used to them.

Your body is a flower and you use it as a weapon.
Aiming for the wombs of god.

Your body is a flower burst from a womb that is god.
It blossoms until it is older and settled.

Your body is a weapon.
Shooting all night
And afterwards you ask for
New lace panties.

Your body is a flower and it is dying.
Your body is a weapon and it is shooting.

Your weapon makes me sad.
It shoots the soft walls of god’s womb.

Your womb is god and it is useless.

When I am a silhouette I float underground and sit with the living.
The living are going to work or to school or to a motel six in Brooklyn.
I am coming from a motel six in Brooklyn and I am a silhouette.
Subway stations aren’t much different than clouds.
I see faces in the dirt.

Two men walk out of the Whitehall ferry terminal bathroom. One man wears a shirt reading HOLLISTER. The other wears a shirt reading FITCH. This is capitalism. This is consumerism. This is America. This is New York City, baby.

Hell, unearthed
will destroy
your lovely village.

Burn down your children’s schools.
Set fire to your churches.

Surgically remove your skin.
Sew it back with needles.

Hide inside your organs.
Blow you kisses of

You will assume a diagnosis
And live by that diagnosis
And you will be schizophrenic
And manic depressive
And you will have attention deficit hyperactive disorder
And bulimia.

The bulimia
is left over
from the churches.

Tie your arms to strings
let yourself dance
under fingertips.

Please remember to bring your rape whistle
when you go out to the garden.
Please do not jump
down the rabbit hole.

Please do not fall
and ruin that pretty face.
It might get you a job one day or a man
with a job that pays well.

Please take this pill
but don’t take four.
Only take what you’re
prescribed by the man with the
white coat.

Go to sleep now.
Time for bed and your alarm
will ring in six hours and you will need to
shower before work and don’t forget
to take your pills.

In the morning
please take the children to the ashes
Of their Sunday school.

My Barbie

May 1, 2013

My body is a vessel and my barbie is a vibrator.
Thin and pink I guide her through each secret desire
And she complies without complaint
And she knows exactly how I like it.

My Barbie is beautiful and in my dreams
I look like her.
In my dreams I make love to Ken in a bright pink convertible
Outside of Stacie’s house.

My barbie is my vibrator and
She teaches me how to give blowjobs without teeth
And how to walk on stilts with bent feet.

My Barbie goes to parties and drinks too much vodka
Stolen from Theresa’s parent’s liquor cabinet
And she kisses Theresa in front of the boys
To make them jealous.

My barbie is a reflection in a department store window
Selling lace panties and diet pills and push up bras.

My barbie is my vessel is my soul is my vibrator
Is my waxed upper lip and tight tank top.

Lisa In Wonderland

May 1, 2013

When I ordered my knight to chop off your head
I said “Off with his head!”
And I planted your head in my garden.

I watered you every morning
As the hot sun beat down on my skin and I felt
like a leather coat on the wrinkled skin
of an old woman wearing that perfume you like.
But I never wear perfume.

When you sprouted from the ground you were a small stick
Poking around like my tongue poking
Around your insides and your tiny branches grew poems instead of
leaves. The birds picked at your words until they understood
And their songs changed tunes and the tune sounded like your limbs moving.

Your insides grew in my garden and I climbed them sometimes.
Your words bring me closer to an infinite space
I can never reach but I can almost feel with heavy bones.
The birds sing your poetry
Using chirps of various pitches and they never
get tired of it.

When I chopped off your poems
It was because I was tired and I lost my knight.
I climbed to the tippiest top of your highest branch and
I destroyed all of your words with my teeth
But the birds kept singing.

The birds have turned into your limbs.
One bird is an elbow and its mother is a leg.
And your head is still buried
In my garden.