flowers blooming

May 1, 2016

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–

spinning in the air
like a dancer pirouettes but
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.


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


Staten Island Love Poem

December 21, 2013

The southern most point of New York hums with a haunting tune to the sound of almost silence, that silence which always has a hum, or a tick or both.


I feel the wind hug my waist, pushing me along its trail, along the ocean, across from a New Jersey harbor.


It is strange the way this feeling only comes to me here, sitting next to the stone house whose legends are larger than my childhood, and much more real.


My body is 50 % water and half of an island. I am a vast sea of lovers and liars and this farthest point has raised me in the way that only a hum can.


When the deer come, I feel happiest. We watch the sun rise above the ocean as if born from its mother, the sea, filled with strange creatures we like to eat. I think the sun looks up to the ocean and perhaps we are upside down.


The grass here is empty except for me, lying on its blanket, breathing dirt as a baby sucks milk to stay alive. This land has a name that does not matter to the reflection of the sea and the small buzz, which comes from nothing. I can be anywhere, sitting here, with deer.


I watch these deer with the intensity of a scientist studying ancient ruins or an unknown specimen. They are the past and the future, standing near the hum, watching it. I try to watch the hum but it is not my place and besides, I cannot see it anyway, only hear it, and what luck.


This is my New York City. A city that sleeps with the humdrum buzz of a drowsy town with big dreams. It is lovely to wake to the babe of the ocean’s wave and to feel the end of an island beneath tippy toes. It is lovely to imagine.


And what a kind gesture to count on, the familiar touch of an arm around my waist, and a push along the beachfront. The wind, my lover and the fish in the sea that I will not eat anymore. The deer have left to find food in the woods. I am 50% water and half an island, anywhere at all.

Your Mom Sucks

August 23, 2013

Your mom sucks the way that old ladies do
when they spit all over your face just to wipe off
a speck of dirt that probably isn’t even there.

Your mom sucks the way that decrepit teachers do
when they lean over your shoulder to tell you how much
work they know you aren’t doing.

She is a lady of small talk; oh how are you? I am good,
thanks, how are you? Oh boy, to get her to speak her mind!
Though profound words would not be heard, at least something
with feeling – give me something with that!

Her food needs salt and she needs spice. I imagine eating her would
taste rough and she would need excessive condiments. Your mom
might taste good dipped in ketchup and doused with salt but she would
sit in my stomach and refuse to come out because she will be too busy
telling my insides everything they are doing wrong. Pump that blood
faster! You’re going to make a big mess!

Your mom sucks the way a woman who can’t sing screams high-pitched
lullabies to a newborn baby. She sucks the way menstrual cycles make my
muscles strain and my feet weak.
Your mom is a silent judge in a courtroom called life
and the verdict is always GUILTY.

Your mom is an itch I can’t scratch, she is a rabid raccoon
running nowhere fast in the middle of the day when she should
only come out at night.

Your mother has a broken wing. She broke it herself.

Your mom sucks.

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.

A stream of conscious in the park on a February afternoon.

To write like Hemingway. How does one write like someone else? A futile concept, I sometimes think, because all literary genuises are praised for writing like no one else. When the sun starts to set it will get cold, and I’ll leave the park and I won’t pick up a pen until Monday, and that’s only because my job requires it. But the sun hasn’t set yet and I’m still here with pen in hand, shoes off, coat around my waist, a bench under my ass. This is my favorite park. It’s not very comfortable to write on a bench. Loose sheet of paper on top of a book about Hemingway’s first wife. I’m half-laying awkwardly, and not very comfortably, but I seem to be writing more legibly. Isn’t it strange to be alone in a crowded park. And in that case I think we’re always alone, and I think that all the time. And there’s a pianist playing to my right, and he’s alone too. Alone with a piano, and I lay here alone with a pen and a fiction novel about Hadley Richardson and a bag of loose french fries. To my left, a man sits alone with a book and some shopping bags, and next to him a man smokes alone, and next to him an old man in a hat sits alone and watches people walk by, and the people walk by alone talking to their respective company. And what are flags for, anyway? It’s funny, I guess, I often think about writing better, using proper words, and when I do I feel silly and unnatural, because I guess I don’t often use those words aloud, but I often write things down I don’t say, and I only feel silly about using proper words because I don’t like myself when it comes down to it, and I judge myself too harshly, and the fear drives me away from success or ambition or both because the two are very similar. A homeless-looking girl with dreadlocks sits on the grass, and she’s looking at herself in a compact mirror, and it makes me laugh because nothing is as it seems and life is quite an illusion.