631.766.6757
SALINE
Music over the speaker blares
like a blender but,
I prefer my margaritas on the rocks- actually
I prefer them in a shot glass without
the mixer, no rim, and I don’t
need a chaser,
I’ve gone most of my life without
training wheels and besides,
my tears have enough salt in them anyway
and sometimes tequila makes me cry,
but not really
because I already cry- just
sometimes tears and tequila happen
at the same time, and
life is sour enough
that I can leave the lime
on the cocktail napkin.
CRYBABY
hanging around funerals and hospitals
staining clothes black
walking with sickles through pearly gates
Saint Peter is so familiar with tears
but what about
yogis? meditation and mantra
free water from the eyes
suspending body and spirit
what about distance?
tears travel on the backs of welcome
cling to the ankles of see you soon
what about comedy clubs? cat videos
poetry about dandelions
brownie sundaes barefoot
souls barefoot soles barefoot
strolls flower petals
sunshine peace moonlight beauty
they too walk in hand
with tears
tears pick at the seams of clothing
remove the thread
l
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s
of naked truth
if you're a man tears pierce
holes in con ver sa tion s
send people r u n n i n g
in the other direction
men are expected to stand
tall against pain
hush tears into handkerchiefs
stuffthemdown into the tradition
of uncomfortable silence
tears deteriorare m u s c l e m a s s
shrink testicles
wipe away beard hair
soften calluses
tears are for women
but occasionally permissible for men
on their wedding day
at the birth of his baby
beside his mother's casket
because men
are white knights
and when wounded
in battle they are expected
to slam whiskey and walls yell
at television sets lift weights and
fuck the women whose tears
they were put here to stop
but also sometimes cause
men are to be statues amongst
fallen ruins remain the last tree
standing through deforestation
be atlas holding the globe steel
beams in fire expected to erect
their own dam to hold back the
tears without consideration that
they may one day drown
WHISPERS
My body makes people uncomfortable
it’s my favourite.
I love to laugh as they stammer
when I declare
my weight, own
my stretch marks, flaunt
my size twenty-two jeans.
Their clumsy words aren't needed,
I am comfortable with my body
the way ballet dancers pirouette,
the way yogis handstand,
the way moss grows on stone.
I am comfortable with my body
the way a house groans and settles
after years of weather and wear.
I’ve spent nearly 30
moving in, decorating the walls,
arranging the furniture just
right to feel at home
the way sand belongs at the beach,
the way cats nap in sunspots,
they way toddlers sing like nobody's watching.
I have finally grown
into my curly hair and dimpled skin,
the circles beneath my eyes,
the glasses in front of them.
I allow the notion
that I can be tall and feminine,
pierced and professional,
fat and beautiful.
Pull me under
and I emerge new.
My body makes people uncomfortable
not because I like to flaunt it
though sometimes I do
but because I like to flaunt it
and I am not a size 4 or 6
but honey, oh, I am a 10.
Proud of the woman I became
once I realized I was here
for more than other people’s eyes,
though I have learned that people
don’t know what to do with me.
Outside of the bedroom
they seem to prefer women who
speak softly, complain
about nothing, pose
as arm candy
but, I am loud, sometimes
disagreeable, almost always
a beautiful mess.
I am both cocky and confident
in my comfortable body, a bit
like gin and tonic, an
acquired taste, plenty
to be said about me
I am not for everybody
but, that sure don't
take away my fizz .
EMPATHY
A bottle of red cranked
the stereo another decibel,
each sip taking me closer
to midnight, in a basement of
hazy twinkle lights looming with good
intentions, cheering on tannins
and fermented grapes
to take me over.
My body begging
to be overcome,
to be novocaine,
to be xanax,
to be someplace else,
to give in.
Deaf while sleep oozes through floorboards
notes plug up cracks in
spinning ceiling unsure where
the green felt of pool table stops
and my hurt begins.
Nerves suspended painlessly
in the empty
bottle alongside numb
fingertips, tingling lips.
With cerebral cortex still in tact
it turns out the bottom of that bottle held
more questions than answers.
Questions lift my limp body
into the passenger seat,
cheesefries the only answer
I can push past drowning tongue.
Her mouth says little,
her face everything.
She knows I am busy choking
down my povern pitcher,
pouring from empty
left only embarrassment
there was nothing left,
though nobody asked
me to quench their thirst.
Now my cup
the pitcher
the well
the whole goddamn river
was dry
‘til months of tears eroded
the dam, saturated
car seats, rose to the dashboard
turned my arms to driftwood.
I wish the wipers were on
the inside as I vomit words
against windshield.
I called it
a learning experience,
she never called me
a mess,
just came to sweep me up
after I crumbled.
Sometimes I call her
I say,
it’s a crank-it-up-to-11-vinyl-spinning-wine-drinking-cheesefry kinda night
because only
she knows
but, I learned my lesson now
I know
when the cup gets low
that water turns to wine and
I am no Jesus but, sometimes
I think that I am a saint
until I remember
how easily I can find myself
soaking wet and swept
into a corner.
NEW NEIGHBOR
5 a.m. greeted with
1 scrambled egg
1/4 an avocado, exactly
15 almonds
only after I’d stepped on the scale
5 hours later mid morning cucumber
sliced into fingers,
1tsp of dressing
4oz chicken breast with lettuce
served over a ceramic plate for lunch,
a whole grain tortilla
squeezed between them as a reward
sometimes dinner:
6oz of salmon,
bland lentils
never dessert
3 hours grunting
up hill to beauty
at the gym every day lifting
the weight I had lost
to remind myself from where
I came, as proud eyes
fell onto me
20 minutes in the sauna
clad in a sweatsuit
‘til wooden slats went blurry, ‘til
I fell down
kept reading labels
counting calories checking
sugar content swallowing
food supplements-
my waistline was shrinking
Mandatory Gym Selfie for Instagram:
1300 calories burned!
more than twice what I’d given my body
#fitspo #icandoit #thinspiration
I dreamt
of milkshakes
cried over sugar
in my smoothie
ate lettuce
at Applebees
brought apples to the bar
with me to chase tequila
because patron burns clean
my body was a temple,
high peaks, stunning
stained glass, beautiful
landscaping
all you heard around town
was talks of the facade-
never a peep
about poor construction,
hastily wired
walls, missing support
beams, or all the
empty rooms.
THE FESTIVAL THAT WASN’T
the rain came down
washed it all away
took the waterfalls
filled them to bursting
overrunning its place
nature does what it wants
what a better way to learn
to live in the moment
to have that moment cancelled
cloudy water would be luxury
for places like Flint yes
half of Watkins is stretched too thin
yes wet to the bones but
us dirty hippies just wanted to jaaammm
man just wanted to bounce around the room
just wanted to take off our suits
ties and heels
pearls wipe off our customer service
face and drown the how can I help you
attitude but not drown it like this just
wanted to let somebody else watch
the kids and the cats and the house just
wanted to worry about the bills next week
not have to set an alarm just
let the sun or laughter or the smell
of weed or the hiss of a nitrous tank
wake us up silent in the morning just
not have to wear a bra or shoes
vacuum a carpet or wash a dish just
let the vibrations of love and light pulse
beneath sunkissed skin
step to the line and dive
into a place unknown unscheduled
undecided undefined
where we
could be free
just a few days
before we
find a way
find a way back home
A POEM IN WHICH I AM HONEST*
A poem in which I am a man
A poem in which I am skinny
A poem in which I am fat
A poem in which I am unjudged
A poem in which I have dogs
A poem in which I am whole
A poem in which I am loved
A poem in which my parents are divorced
A poem in which I am single
A poem in which I can sing
A poem in which I am successful
A poem in which I can speak to cats
A poem in which I use the word Eating Disorder
ayAy oempay inay igPay atLayinay
A poem in which I know how to relax
A poem that changes the thoughts of just one person
A poem in which I open my parents eyes
A poem of silence
A poem in which I am crying
A poem in which I am beautiful
A poem in which I am successful in the way my father defines success
A poem in which I am no longer running
A poem in which my heart becomes words
A poem in which I am
A poem without
*An Emulation of “Poem in Which I Only Use Vowels” - Paola Capo-Garcia
EAT THE WORM
Music over the speaker blares
like a blender but,
I prefer my margaritas on the rocks.
Actually, I prefer
them in a shot glass without
the mixer, no rim, and I don’t
need a chaser,
I’ve gone most of my life without
training wheels and besides,
my tears have enough salt in them anyway
and sometimes tequila makes me cry,
but not really
because I already cry- just
sometimes tears and tequila happen
at the same time, and
life is sour enough
that I can leave the lime
on the cocktail napkin.
EASY LIFE
fan blades thicken
with dust looking
over folded baskets of laundry
a week clean
dishes unwashed
letters unwritten
taxes unfiled
paperwork dotted and crossed and sent
to the one who signs
my paycheck
cats fed but the bamboo is dying
the bamboo is dying
how do you kill something
that needs so very little
VOLCANO
Volcano
i am hungry or
i am full, there seems to be
no inbetween
nobody ever opposite me
on the seesaw
i am either ass in the sand or
for a quick moment I am up
in the sky waiting for gravity
to pull me back down
i am hungry or
i am full
yellow dahl and curry i am
hungry
second and third helpings of dinner i am
hungry
dessert, a bottle of wine
a pitcher of beer
hungry
each night i am sacrifice
to the scale
hungry too it consumes me
toe by toe, ascending
past my feet and engulfing
my calves
devouring my offering
ounce by ounce
part by part
must finish me to be
satiated
hungry
climbing to my belly
reaching vishuddha chakra
i want to call out but i am
nearly choking
the scale so close to full but
somehow i escape,
come morning we are both
hungry
breath and tea help
fill me to the brim
until i drown the
hungry
i gaze into the mirror
see a full face hungry
for tacos and soda pop
deadlifts, clean and jerks
just one chin
cupcakes, chocolate collarbones
at noon i am
hungry i
for miniskirts and candy
bars, pizza, pad thai,
swimsuits
by 4 my stomach
rumbles with thanks for being
hungry
i b r e a k f a s t
at half past 6
with roasted greens chickpeas quinoa
carrots, nourish my cells
after a long day of being
hungry
at 8 i settle into rice cakes with almond butter
multigrain chips raspberry jam italian bread
by 10 it’s oreos
and before bed
chocolate chips from the back of the pantry
i am full
to sickness
i am hungry
with darkness
try to level my seesaw with new
clothes, good sex,
too much makeup,
push presses, pullups, lingerie
it never balances
and i can't hear my body
asking why
because i’m listening
for the numbers at my feet to tell me
they are full
but, they are always
hungry
LATE '95
born in 88 wrapped
in my father's arms I had fallen
asleep on the way
home from a family party run
late and the tv was on
when we walked in
maybe it was the last time he carried me
a furious white Bronco racing down the highway
he set me on the couch
somewhere between
tequila combing the beach
somewhere
wooden spoons camping trips I can only remember
through photographs
we stood
somewhere
in the dark saying nothing
as the tv glowed and
my mother was s o m e w h e r e
my siblings were
s o m e w h e r e
the moments before and after
are s o m e w h e r e
JERSEY DEW
A sampling of some late-night, sweat induced poetry...
Into cotton candy couch cushions
weary bones sink whilst pores perspire
the warm Jersey eve oozing into a puddle beneath wilted limbs
cohorts slumber
nearby chests fighting dead weight
wet, saturated, with nicotine resin and Chinese
food turning slightly in eternal styrofoam graveyards
Was 93 degrees always this hot?
The privilege of frozen air wafting
through bedrooms, traded for helicopter blades
whirring over the trenches as sweat glands fight the front lines
keeping the temperatures below boiling
ORBIT
I drank wine with the ashes
Of my best friends father
Old comrades
In a circle at the table
Haven’t shared a night like this
In a decade
It’s 8pm- feels like 3am
Like 2007
Strewn amongst pillows
Comforters and carpeting
Clad in pajamas sipping Georgi
Vodka chased with orange juice
Hoping we weren’t too loud
That he’d be woken
Now we gather to raise him up
Old vinyls brushed off
Cranked up to 11
Watching each revolution
Drinking wine with foggy memories
Of simpler times
Summers, bonfires, sleepovers
Laughing at high school reunions
How do you reunite with those you’ve never left?
The onyx tomb gleams silently
Between bottles of Berringer
A looming reminder of mortality
Cheers to charred remains.
CRUNCY NOSTALGA
Swallow
crunchy breeze dew
drops crawling on sidewalk
headphone music screaming
drowns out
screaming
hoodie walkman
papercut wrist
school bus to long halls
lockers bookbag fifteen
in for the long haul
footsteps bookbag notebooks
scribbled numb
love letters hate mail
shoplift wine coolers
vodka tequila
couches first kiss
bonfires late night
raindrops baptize
chuck taylors over fishnets
black clothes
black soul
heart of gold
in the end
misunderstood
understanding
cut class
standing under
pot smoke
headphones blaring cigarettes
choke
OCTOBER IS MELTING AWAY
like snow in September
it’s nearly November yet my brain is in March
time stops for nobody no matter how hard
we try to capture stills on film and memories
on paper, the sun rises and falls
through winter and fall summer
spring forward and back the clock ticks
through days seasons years a weekend
gone before you finish blinking
you sneeze a decade
has past fast forward
no backsies as the flakes come from the sky
melt on the tongue that can still taste
the salt from your last margarita tastes
like freedom but you’re behind bars
longing for your skin to taste the sunlight
falling from the sky