canonical hours

“you smell like the ocean. clean, crisp and salty.”

“i love the way our sex smells, it’s epic…”

my husband, the poet…my savior


I’m not gonna keep quiet anymore. 

I’m ready to tell my story. 

It’s not epic, it’s just a story. 

A prayer.

A hymn.

A whisper.

A scream.

When you’re young, you feel like whatever is happening or has happened to you, is unique. That no one could ever understand, or sympathize. That you’ll have to just carry the guilt and the shame, until a person comes along that can help carry the load of it, the heart of it. 

Life moves along and it spreads in your body, veins inside veins. You feel like the next thing that births inside you is a version of yourself that you start to recognize less and less. 

A split. 

A crack in the dermis. 

This new you is reckless, a wanderlust. Splitting open her heels for the sake of feeling something. So that she can learn to walk upright. 

Crawling to be seen.

New and wet, a church bell between the legs.

Crying at each strike.

A funeral.

Driving out the demons with each chime.

A steeple to hang from.

A sacrifice.

Flew over rainforests, watched them shrink, as I shrank. 



Colors turned sour.

Windows fogged by sighs and stitches. 

Pen in hand like a machete.

Clearing open overgrown trails that lead back to the wounded, angry animals that inhabited my temper.

Kisses like hot bullets.

Tongue snakes.

Rusted teeth.

Acrid spit.

Love seeps through the wounds, infects. 

Slithers in.

Slips out.

Over and over and over…

There are decades of open arms, hard cocks, nice words. 


Holding space.

Holding space for mirrors. 

Reflections of lost innocence.

When he comes, he is pure light.

Pure white.

An abyss of resplendence.

A sanctuary.

After miles of roving. 




I’m home.

monday/tuesday rant

How is it Monday?

How am I back in the routine?

How is it that the only person I ever want to be around is John?

I fell in love with him over and over this weekend. It’s strange, to have come this far.

Tell anyone our story, and they’d laugh. Mostly out of confusion.

“You’re pretending.” they’d yell.

It’s a facade.” they’d scream.

But really, I promise…we’re not…we’re not

I love John.

So much.

He is everything I’ve ever wanted rolled into a beautiful flesh coffin.

I like looking at his mouth say things, then I stare at his hands, and remember all of the things he does with them.

Paint. Cook. Fix things. Touch me.

The way he smokes, though I wish we could quit.

The way he throws his head back when he laughs.

How committed he is to making me yelp from happiness.

The way he dances.

The way…

His way…

Mondays are the hardest after a weekend of being in such close proximities.

I miss him, which sounds ridiculous, but it’s true.

Now it’s Tuesday, and I’m in a ridiculous amount of pain.

What is happening to me?

Is this some kind of vodou?

Who hates me this much?

It feels like my insides are at war.

A World War.

Their world.

All mucus and villi.

All small and large.

This pain though, no one believes.

A salient war inside the gut.

Secret rumbling and distant aches.

Dead everything.

Soldiers strewn about, no weaponry.

All I want are baths and sleep.

My doubts creep in when I’m in pain. It doesn’t stop.

It yells and tells me I’m no good.

But I am good.

So good.

I deserve good.

I don’t deserve this pain though.

It’s weird to think back when I used food as a sedative, where now I can barely eat without being in agony.

I hate food.

It makes me sick.

I miss food.

I miss the me that didn’t feel pain.

This is hard.

Healing is at stake.

But I’m unsure what will lessen the stabbing.

What will kill these snakes.





a poem to Marlon Brando.

church bell. small town. hot breath.

sweet maltose kiss on clumsy cheeks.

histatin healing hurt.

young boy. small boy. old man.

drum hands relieving.

caresses on stretched ghosts.

father figure on a hill. on a heel.

snapped punched perfection.

staged sadness in velvet fists.

wet streets. sullen sleep.

island backdrops to cover the stench of constant discordance.

gut full. glutton.

starved. starving.

a mumble. to Shakespeare.

to shadow.

to window paparazzi buzzing to suck the last of the nectar you ate.


a rapist. a husband. a soldier. a stranger.






My intestines hurt.

I can’t eat.

It hurts to digest.

What’s wrong with me?

I can’t keep eating myself sick.

Everything feels like poison.

I want to feel healthy again.



I’m depleted.

I’m afraid.

I have this feeling that I’m not gonna be here for much longer.

I want to enjoy my life while I have it.

I want to enjoy my husband while I have him.

I want my husband to die when I die.

I want to die when my husband dies.

This melancholy is maddening.

I barely eat, yet I feel full.

I barely sleep, yet I dream heavy and humid.

This is not a cry for help, it’s just a literal wail.

A whimper.

A bawl.

A whine.

A sob.

A grieve.

A howl.

A cry.

A scream.

A blare.

Something to push my mind elsewhere other than the pain.

Lately, the time spent in our sanctuary has been magick.

Absolute magick.

I enjoy our silence, our laughter, our uncertainties.

I have never felt so comfortable with the parts of me he helps heal.

I need no one else, and that’s not a false hope that he will become everything, more of a declaration that I have enough to fill up the parts that he doesn’t.

Maybe that’s all fucking backwards, and I need some sort of “tribe” to interact with and learn from, but my insides say otherwise.

“Listen to your gut,” they say…

But what if you have IBS?

What then?

I’ll go with what I know, and what I’ve learned.

I thrive better alone.

I thrive better with a partner, that leaves me alone.

I flesh out my marrow when I’m alone.

This pain though, it growls.

It is hungry for nothing.

It pines for emptiness.

I listen,

and starve.











how poets love (circa 2013)

I’ve had a solid love life I suppose. 

I’ve been loved by all kinds. 

Women, men, gay men, bisexuals, trannies, pubescent boys & girls. 

Convicts and men old enough to be my grandfather. 

Men in far-away lands.

But as I thought about it all, and tried to imagine the best sex I’ve ever had, it always started with words. 

Words were the aphrodisiac. 

They were necessary and vital. 

Some of those lovers I never met in the flesh.

Some of them were born, existed and died by the pen. 

They made love to me with syntax. 

Slurped me up with style and diction. 

Stroked rhythmic throbs and compositions. 

Lured me with nervous mistakes made by their anxious hands. 

Suckled my gregarious proverbial clit with allegories of their engorged cocks. 

I called them Daddy and Darling.

I called them whatever they wanted. 

I dressed my words and flesh with cosmic garments, hoping my comet words would reach them, choke them, burn them. 

There were moments when my body cooked over open flames, tiny pins poking their way into my veins; my hands devotedly praying on my sopping cunt. 

We’d whisper under sheets and catch the loud thunderous strokes of their pens and their cocks, while I managed one hand deep in my cunt, to write and writhe, until both hands fell numb from complete collapse. 

As a poet and a lover of words first and foremost, I can’t help but feel emotionally and physically inclined to them.

Fuck me with verbiage first, and I’m yours, forevermore. 

Four months=90 years

Our apartment is a bit grimy.

Lived in.

We leave dishes in the sink for days, cause we’d rather be doing stuff like painting, writing or making love…

Our bathroom is strewn with clothes we’ve stripped off, hair-ties, bobby pins, crusted toothpaste in the sink because we brush our teeth in the dark come night.

Our bed is a squall of twisted sheets, pillows, an extra long phone charger and a bedspread contaminated with our sleaze.

The floor is usually clean, except for when we spill our wine, or beer, or the infamous cocktail he concocted aptly named, the Ingrid Collins.

Equal parts lemon juice, orange juice and grenadine.

Then whisky.

Topped with club soda and a lemon wheel because I’m a round missile, and a wedge wouldn’t do my explosive heart justice. 

Our plants do well in this environment, they sprout smaller versions of themselves, birthing babies.

Mocking us.

Dust collects in all the corners, and my hair strands end up in everything.

The freezer, our food, the refrigerator, inside the pickle jar, his beard, wrapped delicately around his cock, my mouth. 

His paint splatters on the floor, on his face, on his hands, on his pants…

It’s everywhere when he’s in unzipped cadence with his passion; it’s a beautiful sight. 

We take baths and share our sullied bathwater. Our small offering to the Universe. I am an avid water conservationist and do what I can, when I can.

It’s nice being human with this husband of mine. He enjoys me, he enjoys my flesh, my mind, my tears, my sweat, my child-like insecurities, my pain, my laughter, but most importantly, he is an avid fan of my soul. And let me tell you, this soul is heavy and awkward. 









Don’t Try



Hank Chinaski.

I’m one of those incredibly rare bitches that loves Bukowski. I say rare, not because I’m fucking special, but because it is utter blasphemy to love someone like Bukowski in 2018.

I’m sure my love for Bukowski is evident by the name of this blog, but I digress…

He’s a disgusting, “misogynist”, asshole, alcoholic, bad poet, cowardly, piece of shit, yah?

Of course he is, but guess what?




Meaning, he’s just a reminder of the parts of ourselves that are usually suppressed, ignored, or just plain embarrassing.

I know, that’s a big assumption on my part, I do that sometimes, assume. I assume the worst and hope for the best. I think my mother taught me that.

He was the everyday loser. The ignored, the bullied, the victim. I mean, if that doesn’t sound like every single one of us, then fuck, I have this existence thing all wrong.

I’m not here to defend him, nor am I here to convince you, yes you reading this, that you should embrace him or even like him or his writing.

I am however, showing you a different perspective, a flip. Perhaps by looking at him with sympathetic eyes, we can begin to see ourselves that way too.

Forget the prejudgements and the shit we’re fed by people who have hardly worked on themselves. That’s the most hilarious aspect regarding Bukowski, the people that hate him, hate themselves.

Whatever the question, the answer is always love.


Aren’t I a sensitive little bitch?

That all said, my husband and I visited his grave today.

We drank and smoked and enjoyed the cool breeze alongside the warm sun on our faces. We enjoyed the quiet, since we rarely hear it where we live.

Day drinking got the best of us and we passed out once we got home.

Thank you Buk.

Thank you for being so vulnerable with your ugly.




Aside: Some stupid elitist asshole (the kind I’m sure Bukowski would want to punch in the fucking throat) made some ridiculous comment about our “selfie” at the “grave” on one of those pointless social media outlets we all know and love. Saying “I’m sure he appreciates having a selfie taken at his grave.

He obviously hasn’t read anything by Bukowski, obviously. I love when ignorant fucks chime in on something like a picture of two fans at a graveside and try to sound like they know what they’re talking about.









“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.” -Charles Bukowski