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


boys (excerpt)

My eyes are dry

But my flesh is hurricane

That shakes and is not shaken by

The likes of your extinguishing muzzle

My soul is a natural disaster

It burns

And it ruins

And it floods, and it freezes

And it, as it runs rabid, is disruptively unbound and unchained

I do not write about boys who would smother me beneath the tin can of some hapless gas fire

I am not a bunsen burner

Or matchstick flicker

I am a tsunami of depth and chaos and size

Your shadowy birdcage was unprepared for

–Are all the things I wanted to say

To the boy I wrote this about

Bad feminist, I hiss at myself

As I dream of the arms attached to the boy

I wrote this about




from underneath me

there is a craving

inside me

an echo


it seems

belong both places



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.