withered tulips, 

naked on my fingertips—

mistakes of taken men,

and badly written metaphors—you

want the least tumultuous—you 

want the one that hurts you more—you

match inconsistencies with the fearlessness of boredom

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what are friendships that exist by a connectedness that I can sever?

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I have never mothered something more aggressively than myself,

I have always maliciously dissected and dismembered all who try to walk away,

lately though,

I only cast spells,

the kind that leave me far enough away,

and always close enough to stay

the woman pushes her plate aside

do you see now?

how your money isn’t real?

how you’re still an earthquake away from being swallowed by the Earth?

do you see how your education and your MFA’s still have you locked down like the rest of us?

are you still enjoying the hard cocks in front of your faces?

all those upturned noses, surgically imposed, posed in good lighting—smile, or pout—yes—like that—make yourself infantile—frigid and easy—giggly

focus on you and stay—the world can listen to you clamor on about the way life’s tasted in your cup—

the men—they fall and glisten at your watercolors—smearing your memories on your ripened breasts

words clasp themselves on your wrinkled laugh lines—only now—you’re frowning

PLAYLIST and a poem


Below, is an excerpt from my diary/book MENSES (coming out in October of 2020), where I chronicle the aging body abandoning its budding form. 

March 5, 2020


Don’t you realize,

there are more important things  than sex,

money and blood?

a child only gets a few times to break its bones, 

before it’s permanent.

bones heal, congeal—

pieces of them stuck in the crevices of trauma, shame—

if we don’t medicate, if we don’t break,

we remain infantile—

responsibility, subdued—

aches, pains. you, me.

Look, I am a nobody. 

Meaning, no one really listens to my podcast, or reads my blog. 

My books don’t really sell, and my poetry is mediocre at best. 

I am just one of you and you are one of me.

It means more now, to say it that way. 

To feel it that way. 

My need to write isn’t to be heard. 

It is to learn.

To remember.

To forget.

I embrace the parts of me that are stunted but also recognize that everything I let be is a choice, and stagnancy can be unclogged with a bit of effort.

We are all being affected right now.

But we have always affected one another.

That is why we travel and fetishize people and cultures. 

We are always up each other’s sleeve, and in each other’s cup.

We are drinking our distilled and filtered urine.

We breathe the same air.

Fame is a farce and so is paper money.

We live inside each other in the most intimate ways yet—why do so many of us have such contempt for humanity?

Now, what I’m about to write is a personal statement about why I have such contempt for us, including myself. I am never far from my own judgments. It would be silly to think I am exempt. 

Humanity has been on a steady downfall since I could first acknowledge such a thought. 

I’ll say it was maybe 1984 when the thought of it came into my child brain. 

I was being molested and raped at that point by a man who was supposed to be taking care of me; his wife was an onlooker. 

This is a story I have heard in many other guises.

A father abusing his daughter.

A mother abusing her son.

A nun.

A priest.

A teacher.

A friend.

A husband.

A wife.

A stranger

The list is endless, and disgusting.

Now, how does this relate to the circumstances facing us on this day, March 18, 2020?

Mostly, if taken a bit out of context, it is the normalcy of corruption on both the small and large scale.

The failing of integrity.

The filth that is fed down to generations of peoples, expecting no detrimental outcome. 

The pain that it brings, and how we’re not taught to make it constructive.

How easily we place blame.

How we take no responsibility.

How we are put against one another in so many ways, and how easily we digest these ways.

My contempt lies in how I’ve approached my own trauma, and how I began viewing the world and the people in it. 

I grew up angry, malnourished and miserable.

I ate greedily of all things obscene. 

I treated myself how I had come accustomed to feeling.

I never bothered to listen to the voice inside me. 

There’s a Buddhist story I believe, that talks about hiding our most divine in the place we would hardly think of looking; inside ourselves.

So that’s where it lives.

That goodness.

That acceptance.

But where did we go wrong?

When did the world begin to destroy itself?

This is an ancient question, and I am only 40 years on this Earth.

But I have been on a hunt for this answer.

What is greed?




noun: greed

intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food.

It is from Old English grædig, or “voracious,” which means “always hungry for more.”

Why are we this way?

So hungry.

I know I’ve always struggled with this. 

This need to horde food, feelings, emotions.

This feeling of feeling incomplete.

I believe everyone feels this way, that’s why we do things like write, paint, dance, fuck, sing, swim, play sports, drink in excess, eat in excess.


We are trying to feed the deficit limbs inside us.

Trying to extend ourselves.

Coaxing these ghost limbs to grow.

We are trying to nurture what was ignored.

Which means, we are living in a planet that has rejected the basic needs of its children and the basic needs of itself.

If we don’t care about the well-being of the bodies we’re in and the bodies we’ve birthed, how are we to see that what we’re also ignoring is the world we’re fastened to?

My contempt lies in this.

The lack of care we have for nature.

The lack of care that we have for sharing the wealth of our abundance. 

We are blessed here.

If you are reading this, you are blessed.

But you are also at risk, because your blessings have hindered you.

We are not as strong as our ancestors.

They had a secret I wish I knew.

My own great-grandmother was blind. Her eyes; white marbled cataracts.

But her keen sense helped her see.

Helped her cook the meals she served her children, even while blind.

The memories inside her cautioned that sight lives in the palms, ears, and feet.

This is the lesson I take.

Love makes us see.

Eyes live in everything.

The Universe is watching.

I feel my body at rest

The peak.

An epidemic.

Can you believe it?

It finally happened.

I’ve always spoken about it, and feared I’d never see it.

But look—here we are.

Isolated, and in absolute bliss.

Love has kept me in its arms.

Cooking, my new hobby.

Such joy in the kitchen.

I don’t measure.

Mistakes are abundant, but I keep learning…

The dough must sound like this—it must give back just like this when you poke it.

Oh, but you know, love is like this too—supple, pliable, a dough, baked and devoured, perfecting the recipe for it, each time better, sometimes sweet and sometimes savory , sometimes sour and sometimes violent.

It’s been raining for days now.

An appropriate ablution.

The city is restless for interaction.

No one can sit in the silence of this rest, no one breathes and severs ties with the idea of immunity.

This is molasses for a town on fast-forward.

It is a day—Monday—but every day feels the same lately.

This way of dealing, with rising dough and rising numbers helps ease me into sleep.

I’ve cooked my way to calm.

Ego doesn’t live here anymore

I am not prejudice, racist, homophobic, sexist, transphobic or any other thing you can think of.

I hate everyone equally.

I spent $400 on food yesterday and was called “mad” by a customer behind me who swore she survived the Great Depression, even though she looked close to only being 50 years old.

People are stupid.

So many opinions and regurgitated news articles live in the empty mouth holes of most. Some, like me—stay quiet and do what needs to be done and goes home. Bakes a kumquat upside down cake and makes a pork lentil soup and eats. Watches ‘Planet of the Apes’ and ‘Contagion,’ and sleeps with the help of melatonin but it only manages to make me restless and so I eat a soft pillowy rice cake and cry and listen to the rain and think of this life and chant to myself, “we are only temporary, we are only temporary, we are only temporary,” until I fall asleep.

Wake up.

Look at my husband’s sleepy face as he prepares the coffee.

I offer him a slice of cake, he beams.

I want to tell him he is everything, instead I get a fork and hand him over a slice. He thanks me, I want to cry because love is the best thing I’ve ever tasted and now I taste it often.

I was asked, “are you scared?” via text yesterday.

I think I am.

I’m not sure yet.

I don’t want to be.

Mostly, I’m grateful for the opportunity to watch this unfold.

For the opportunity of living.

For everything.

I’m ready.