the Jupiter rings
beneath my eyelids
have hung themselves to spin
on hoops of speed.

it is a ceremony and every
night I wear my sacerdotal nightgown.
I am catching chalky loaves in my mouth,
and I am waiting for a ghost.

a drooling, steel baby, it is I-
coughing up bits of organs,
plushy, fat blue bulbs of Wednesday,
expelling my mother’s Tuesday.

a little bit of heat will do the trick.
a stick or two- three pumps
and the blood is baptized,
boiling blessings, blossom-bruises.

I, nestled on my glass trapeze,
am playing movies in my eyes,
licking my fingers and pulling up
pages of a magazine.

you are listening to the priests inside
of my stomach-
do they speak God?
does he speak English back?

out into the air I make words,
sounding out like beaten horses.
I let the floor catch my phrases,
I let the sheets decide to hold my weight.

when I turn
onto my pink heels,
I won’t look back to see the
wine I’ve spilled.

I am the hebrew crown
and they are the sutured tourists.


Thick and Happy

I peel the perfume sampler from the magazine.
it’s a name I’ve never heard of,
another Italian who-ever-the-fuck creating
scents to attract the opposite sex.
scents like “Midnight Princess” and
the girl on the cover looks like
some chick I went to college with-
all thick and happy looking.
I think her name was Lauren?
what was my name?
back then I used to paint
and I’d pass in my assignments with
hidden cocks etched into landscapes.
I’m sitting here on the bathroom floor
identifying women’s shoes as they
walk in and out.
Pseudo-Lauren smiles back at me
in her bright Chanel lipstick.
this is where I am.
Pseudo-Lauren gets a salty-teared
facial, dripping down her glossy dress.
this is where I am-
rubbing Italian sampler perfume
on my wrists
so I can pretend that I’m just
as valuable as the thick and happy model.


She had emerged from a seemingly empty pocket
Of nothing. Suddenly, there, amidst the crowd of
Wide-pupilled, pill-popping people
She jumped happily up and down,
eyes closed, hair tussled.
Everything became very quiet in his mind
Until the roaring electronic, mechanic music
Became a stagnant lull swimming in the space
Between the ears.
Uncomfortably aware of the flow of his breath,
He stood in surveillance of this creature…
Hands in the air, twirling, hips melodically swaying
To some unearthly rhythm.
Then, her eyes opened.
Bursts of hot embers exploded all over his
Back, shoulders, arms, legs.
She smiled for a moment. But it wasn’t
Really a smile. It was more of a
Small acknowledgement that he was staring,
That he had been entranced.
As if to say, thank you for noticing me,
Her eyelashes fell to the floor
And lifted to stretch her sight across the crowd
Of lights, and people, and drinks in hands.
The right corner of her lip curled. Eyes shut again.
The lull grew back to sound, to music, to rhythm.
“You alright?” a voiced shouted towards him.
He spun halfway around to meet eyes with his friend.
Shouting louder over the clamor, “Are you okay?”
He nodded, almost as if to convince himself.
He turned, she was gone.


Lay Down Sally

You always told me that my poetry was too dark and
Depressing and if only I wrote about something happy
For once, maybe I would be happy, too.
That’s the problem.
I was. Some days
Were just sad and fucked up. Some days I just wanted
To run the bath water and slip under the faucet and
Drown because the rest of life- yeah, poor me-
Was too much to handle.
Well, you want a happy poem?
The weather is beautiful today. The leaves on
The trees are turning orange and red and brown.
I can walk outside without a sweater and the
Air on my skin is refreshing.
I went to Starbucks, I had a latte and it was delicious.
I saw a huge yellow Labrador retriever on my way
To work and he was the most excited dog
I think I’ve ever seen at 8:15 am.
I’m having a great hair day, every strand is where
It needs to be. I cleaned my desk and I can look
Outside and marvel at the way the sun is beaming
Down onto the window shields in the parking lot.
I’m sorry I became so negative. I’m sorry I stopped
Listening to Jim Croce and Creedance Clearwater Revival.
Actually, I never listened to Croce much to begin with
So I immediately take that back.
Somewhere, inside of me, I’m still her, still me.
I see me in the mirror when all of my make-up
Has been washed off of my eyelids.
Sometimes, I’d like to blame therapy because
I used to be blissfully ignorant about my deep-rooted issues.
Sure, I had melt downs and I’ve tried to kill myself.
But at least I thought I was normal for doing it.
Don’t think I’m not me. Just because I look different
And I cut my hair and now I wear denim.
I’m still me, and I always will be. It’s just been
One helluva fucked up ride working through
My shit.
And the leaves, yes the leaves,
They are beautiful.
Everything is beautiful.


I am plastered here as sleepy as a mollusk
melted into the floor, waiting to be scraped, peeled.
My saxicoline body is wet with blue anguish,
exploding onto my knees like fat water balloons.
My pearly friends smile at me from my hands.
They smell like iron, or something equally as earthy
and dirty.
Dressed in my clerical calico, I am presentable
for Jesus, or Buddha, or Allah- or no one.
Stupid me. Twice I’ve seen the vacancy signs
lit up like a Christmas parade..
Yet, I’ve whipped my heels around, too afraid.
I begin to think of the things I’ve forgotten before I go;
to feed the cat
to water the plants
to lock the house
to turn off the stove
to kiss my lover
to write goodbye
to say goodbye
to cancel my contracts.
I spin my heels in this way.
Not today. But that’s alright.
I was never too presentable in those moments anyways.
God or Satan would have laughed and spat
for the disgrace that is my mismatched socks.
Instead, I visit in short and intense bursts.
One pill to six sends me to Tiburon for tea with ghosts-
where dead moths collect themselves into a pile
of dried wings and snappy legs.


A cat’s blue belly,
pumped up like a jellyfish
rounded out and spattered
with it’s limbs outstretched.

Red confetti-like specks of dye
happily sat melted on their white capsulets.
The taste of chalk infected my mouth,
my throat and lungs.

A hobby.
(the deplorable sobriquet
of a junkie’s self-worth)
I carry thirteen pockets
full of our pulverulant Christ.

To the moon! we said-
To hell, or whichever we see first.
It must be my body’s lack of
containment; I’ve gone septic.

I’ve given birth to purple babies,
curled in satin shoe-boxes,
hiding underneath the boulder
we found that day in the park.

Feed me pills, hard and wet with spit
so that we may forget their open faces,
blue like dead orchids,
abandoned in the vase from Mother’s Day.

Yet, the milk I spill still spills:
A deranged lagniappe.

The Battle and Blessings of a Devoted Nun

small white buckets of velvet sit
high on their earthly stilts,
proud of their purpose,
whatever that may be.

along the bedside of a pumped up priest,
chanting relentlessly on worn out beads
and bleating to a God that hasn’t listened
since that night in 1992.

I chant, too. On nights like these.
though I know the difference between
a steel crucifix and the holy ghost.
I chant for you, Wife,
so that the aches I give you may leave your bones.

both of us coil in life, like
snakes, split-tongued and tempered.
when you sleep I hear your dull rattle-
humming and hissing.

I adore your ridges, your stuck claws in the ground.
I am able to lick each nail clean from the socket,
gently ripping you from your familiarity.

Wife, may you buckle beneath my loyalty,
overcome by love and love and love.
For you have grown knowing nothing else
but to scratch and bite.

I am no causality.
and if you bite again, well, I love to bleed.

lying still, save the rise and fall of your stomach,
I keep my eyes fixed on your collarbone.
I’ve always loved the dark rings on your skin,
the way your chest juts towards the sky.

chanting here I speak now in low whispers,
my throat cracking with elongated aaaas.
funny now, God must have left the sheets,
as I find myself spilling this soliloquy to you.

I’m worried that you’re awake,
listening to this raw moment of truth.
then again, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before
drowned in whiskey and smudged in mascara.

how content I am to exchange nothing
but silence and mutual dreams.
like a nun, devoted to said steel,
I bend here on my knees, devoted
to the god between your legs.

come morning when the yellow hood
has yawned and collapsed over buildings,
I will taste your mewling mouth and
delve into our third sacrament.

for now, we sleep beside those small white buckets
of velvet that sit high on their earthly stilts.
I am proud of your purpose,
whatever that may be.

the air has cooled.
I hold you here,
still chanting through my heart,
still holding yours.

The Budda’s Hiatus

a tumult of aggression blooms in the hollow
space in the back of my neck.

little knobby shadows
protrude from the ceiling.

the arena vibrates,
the plastic Buddha falls from out

my grasp. his fat stomach cracks
on the granite beneath.

the web-spun baskets
empty themselves of tangerine confetti.


July’s Patient

i had never seen that shirt on you before.
that must have shown because
a small smile seated itself on
your face.
“it’s good to see you,” you say
as you pour half and half into
your steaming hot black coffee.
I nod, half-acknowledging you.
“when is your flight again?” i ask.
the space grows quiet,
save the incessant
from your spoon tapping the
rim of the porcelain cup.
You take half of a deep breath
and say,”Yeah, I leave at nine a.m
tomorrow morning.”
I tug on my bottom lip with my teeth.
I realize how tense my forehead
has become as I let it loose.
“I’ll be back though, come November.
I’m not supposed to stay long…”
your voice melts with the random
colors inside of me.
i study the blue tile on the table.
the convoluted designs make
me feel a little more comfortable.
the clinking stops.
“Sam, are you listening to me?”
i look at you.
“November?” I ask.
“Yeah, I mean, you know unless
more business comes up.”
I cock my head to the left.
“You know how it is, Sam. Its busy now
with the whole company expansion.
They need me. You get it, right?
I’m a huge part of this expansion.”
“I get it.”
i tried to count the tiles again.
that didn’t work.
a small tear trickles down my cheek
and makes a puddle on the corner
of my lips.
you drop your spoon.
you purse your lips and
crinkle your nose a little.
you’re waiting for me to say something,
but i sit there quietly as you
glance at your white-watch.
“shit, i have to go now Sam,
i’m real sorry but, shit, i’m going to
miss the goddamn bus.”
I say, “I know,” and i hold my breath,
i try to swallow whatever is
about to come up.
“I’ll uh, call you tomorrow morning.
you can say bye to me then if
you want, over coffee or–”
“Bye, James.”
there’s a very long pause.
you stand up and take one
more swig of your coffee.
you set the cup down
on the table.
“Yeah, bye Sam.”
you throw your coat over your shoulder
and walk away.
i watch you blend into the distance
until you become a blurry patch.
i collect the spoon and
place it cozily in my purse.
i walk away.

Christ- Original Poetry

Shields of gold blaze in the illumination of
an everlasting sun.
Grains of mercury-red sand scratch at the bottoms of
their feet. The dusty heat
permeates their lungs.
These demigods march on, sheathed
in pure linen. Leaves of bay affixed to their
heads. Great leather writhes
in the hands
of few, and thorns wrapped by
wreath in fewer.
A brutal switching falls.
Hot stones lie on their beds
watching our demarcating history.
Ancient splinters assume our
She spills to the floor, lamenting.
A wonderful sight, this immaculate
conception, fixed to the
earth like a thirsty weed.
In passing, the Devil
swaddles the baby in lily-white cambric-
the ultimate paragon.