this booth bench feels like bus bench

that passes road sign to road sign

all deep fried, all stir fried

all starry eyed

and pining

misty for the tides of abandon


this passing,

I’ll make it a tradition

and keep it a secret

between you and me

I’ll give you every Sunday morning on benches

frozen lakes on the steam of my coffee


people are, to us, who we were to them

and I suppose I miss being Monkey

the world of family is not drawn by legal pads and eagle seals

but by sounds, remembered smells,

by laughter and plants on the walls


I wish to honor you and

sit across from all the you’s

on this bus of a booth that

could be anything


the truth is,

I feel bigger than this immediate corner

I feel bigger than the left or right corner

bigger than clumsy evening

or skin to skin battle,

desperately distracted

in search of family


left behind




a lot of sad poems lately

but i’m pretty okay lately

even though i always describe myself in lack

not this

not that

not she, i disappoint myself in slideshows

of smiling faces

can’t live up to should

lately, i’ve been pretty okay,

i’m getting better, i understand the cycle now

abandoning the ship of self deprecation

defecation for mental word play,

telling myself it’s a trick

and an exercise

perfection, i’ve heard,

is the balance of sanity and actuality

when i realize at day one

to be was to be unwanted

but i’ve been pretty okay, lately,

in the way that the tsunami quiets the riptide

and the sheep

speaks comedy to the bishop.

grim reaper

my dusty sigh could empty footlockers-

and burn dishwashers-

with grime of poison mouth

with hope that hinged

on Child’s Lie-


-your currency was rage

and all the world a debt-

to be underneath you was to yearn

for atonement-


the only thing i learned that year

is all i choose to remember-

dead skin molts away,

the clock breaks on 3, and

the truth-

a wooden raft on salt and shame-


love is freedom-

never ask-

if you must,

if you have to,

if you beg-

drag your tongue out

prick your toes and swallow sweat-

they never can-

know today, that to ask,

they never will

nov 18, 2017

bitter chill always makes me think of you, and us,

the warmest thing I ever held,

the only heat I’d touched with joy,

when they ask, “had she known love?”-

not like yours

and not since-

and I rest myself

by the ash

remembering what it was once


to burn


sticky running through

it comes deeply

surviving on a hope

or a desperation

it comes softly

inside, in waves

stinging on a promise

you promised you’d make

come quietly

the only lie is that i’m on my stomach

by choice

the only truth is that i said yes to the kill

but no to the time

it comes quickly

and begins again where it ended–

within me, a swallow of mess and the silence of shame


maybe in a year you’ll find the dried root

in the folds of your intestines

that’s given itself to fear and detachment

and you’ll finally know

where to plant it–

or maybe you’ll be embarrassed to look at him

because he’s hung you out

to dry

on the wires of anticipation.

either way–

you’ll still be older

in the same body,

hopefully driving the same tongue

into different dances,


and sweaty

and numb.

no surprise, really

i am sorry for all that i’ve been

and now my business

is promoting my original thought

for someone else’s sales

my words are owned by a person

i’ve never met

much like everyone else

i am 23 with


it all begins from within

and here i am

too obsessed with what i’m living without

the external is made by me, not makes me

how do i access that bit?

i wanted to do, so i did,

then i stopped

too aware of the glass

i was crushing in my unsigned checks

i was comfortably shape shifting


but it stops

and forward procession must be marked

by an intentional call toward detachment

but that’s not to say

i can’t love you


just that the only one

with the power to drive me crazy

should be whatever storm

is already inside of me

everything else are inventions

and i create, with you, a reality

a shared reality

that i’ve been mistaking for my own


gather the pieces of me that

the people who have seen my body

still hold onto

take back the part of me they believe they still have

take these pieces and not place them back

in me

but create something

outside of me

something that belongs to no one

that exists in time and not space

a separate self

a non bodied self

now untouchable, more whole than the fragments

that previous owners believed were assets

to their portfolio


though I loved you

your territorialism and chest puffing

and slut shaming and gaslit desire to keep me




said more about the percentage of my body

over which you believed you were owner

than of the respect

you claimed to have for my freedom-

men with skin like yours

want to own everything,



take back the piece of me

even from you

from the fingers before you, to the arms after you

that still calculate

my flesh

and my hollow space

that they were privileged enough (sometimes strong enough)

to touch

as a deposit into their self worth and sociopathic ideas

of what makes them “man”


though I loved you

I could not see you were holding onto

the final piece that needed to be collected

so I could deny

future ownership

and allow

this new wave of mine of escaping spirit

to live within me

without territory, without registry



by anyone who believes

they still own a share