Go fuck yourself.

I am never good enough for you, always doing something to YOU, so evil

such a WOMAN. so EVIL.

Go fuck yourself and write a goddamn


about it.


He said success is not a straight
line. I crabwalk my way through the
dark alleys of the night littered with dirty
secrets each whispering, whimpering to
look this way, that way.

I could not make your party and I’m
sorry but the day had gotten so very long
and well, you know how my brain works,
don’t you?

The meeting was nice, a circle of us addicts
and me the youngest, telling my story in five
minutes or less and the people with their lips
pursed, not from objection but from a sort of
sympathy that only comes from those with the
worst inside of them.

I have not seen my therapist in three weeks. He
calls me every Tuesday and I tell him I cannot
come in, sorry, prior obligations. I am a flake.

A snowflake. A special fucking cupcake. I am
sugary sweet, so good to eat I am the demons in
the back of my head. The cats feel bad energy in
my bed and it comes from the back of my head.

Holy water, holy mother of god, holy ham sandwich
what would Bukowski do? Drink a few beers and then
a few more and be done with it. Hemingway would
wage a bet on a sturdy horse. Sylvia dances round in
circles stepping on her toes.

I cannot wake up in the morning anymore. I used to
enjoy the mornings but I am sleepy now and would
you please let me be? I am just sad and you cannot
fault a sad person, it’s just that our brains work too
quickly and I get overwhelmed.

Write a story about a house, a brownstone house in
Brooklyn where the tree lined streets are in close
proximity to Manhattan itself, oh what a fucking
day. I write poetry to stay awake.

Here’s to friendships which only ever partly end and
here’s to a job with a computer to write poetry and here’s
to skipping my therapy for worse things to do and here’s
to the meetings and the demons and the truth.

Sugar Daddy

November 12, 2013

Pancakes for dinner taste especially
lovely when they are paid for by you, my
married man with child. Sugar, you are
special. Tell me more stories of your past
troubles, rest your weary head on my young
shoulders and let me comfort you. She is
bad to you, undressing for other men while you
watch your three year old daughter grow up.

Don’t be afraid daddy, I know the universe
is constantly expanding and so are we, small
but growing larger. She has outgrown you, why
will you pay her bills? Love is a cunt and a
half, but I’m here for you baby, and thanks for
the shoes.

We plan trips for later days and you sleep
in your mother’s house wondering what
your wife is doing in the home you pay for,
who she is texting and why isn’t it you? Don’t
cry my love, you are a deep thinker and deep
thinkers eat shit for breakfast, it is our curse,
but I’ll hold you now while you fall into slumber,
where bad dreams are only dreams.

I am not her and I am lovely to you. You are
a broken vase of glass and I am a flower,
jumping inside you to keep you as beautiful
as you’ve always been. This time we’ll have
a laugh, baby, and it will be deep and hearty.

She doesn’t deserve you but she has you. Old with
wisdom, and yet you love the woman who has
nothing for you. I have nothing but kisses for your
neck, no promise of a future. I am a flower in a broken
glass vase. Thank you for the new leather bag.

The Snake Charmer

November 6, 2013

This is a short essay inspired by Sylvia Plath’s essays and based on truth.

I danced for him. My naked body slithered like a snake with small nipples, stubbly legs and a face, which stared or moaned or both. Around men, naivety befalls me. Often I act as though I am an art piece of black and white swirls, one that hypnotizes. I cry to discover that I am not art and our dance was not an exhibition.

This particular man was ten years my senior. During a more desperate time in my 20’s I attended NA meetings almost every day, upon leaving a redundant day job in Chelsea. All over Manhattan I traveled via subway or foot to a large gathering of men and women, usually in a cafeteria or conference room, to discuss our nasty drug habits. The man ten years my senior spoke well at one of these meetings and I danced up to him in the way that I do, telling him I liked his speech, as aggressive and rather abruptly as I normally do. After a minute of introductions he tried explaining where the meetings in the LES were, but seemed to be a jumbled mess, and he could not spit out the words I suspected he wanted to tell me. His confusion made me smile (I enjoy messes – I was in NA after all). We exchanged numbers.

Before decreasing my drug use, and trying to stop for good, Sunday was my favorite day of the week. I had off from work with all the time in the world to do absolutely nothing — and easily copped by walking down the street. Nowadays, Sundays destroyed me. It was hard to keep myself busy and I often fell into a pit of depression and despair, a furious ball of angst excited to explode. I tried to aid my chi. I took long hot showers, attended AA meetings nearby, and went food shopping with my father. Four days after meeting him there was only one thing that would make me feel better, I was sure, and it was hanging out with the man from those Manhattan meetings. I confided in him my troubles and he asked me to come to his neighborhood, that we would walk around, talking, and that I would feel better once I came.

I danced with him in bed that night and my head played a pungi, which was only heard by me. He told me I am beautiful. “You’re sexy,” I reply. I never know what to say to a man in bed besides the usual dirty words. 

So it was done, the dance was here and then gone and that make-believe hypnosis only lasted a day or two afterwards, or perhaps was never really there. For weeks afterward I gave the friendship my all. Sending him flirty words, kissing smiley faces, a book or music recommendation. He always answered though not often right away, and never initiating conversations. My sense of importance took a plunge into the depths of my guts, my heart moved farther and farther down my torso, and the little voice in my head told me (again) to stop basing my worth on the actions of a man. Oh how I loathed the housewife inside of me, when my exterior tried so hard to scream FEMINISM!

I’d like to say I learned my lesson, but a lesson is never really learned. Like my own principles and values they surface long enough to write a poem or a story, and then they are carried away with wind, and I am left with my feet planted to dirt, wishing to be nothing but a water lilly. The men come and go and I dance forward, charming if for only a night, and always with a pungi in my head.