Saturday, March 30, 2013


you're rough, pulling the smoke through a tight fiber filter with all that you have and your legs pulse faster than your heart does and you're learning against a wall and you know you look cool because you're wearing your dark wash jeans. forty dollars for a pair of pants but they didn't mind, they never mind because you're their little fucking miracle, their little fucking gift. what is a forty dollar pair of jeans for a legacy, an heir? it's fine, it's okay. they love you too much to think that way and sometimes they look at you and you feel like a fucking stock photo in a picture frame. too many teeth and eyes as deep as laminate. it's fine, it's okay, it's fine. doesn't matter right now because you're leaning against this wall and you're staring at her from across the street.

it's some kind of law building, maybe. your father works at a law building too with beige slate siding and doors with those metal wrap-around handles sticking right out of the fucking glass and whenever you'd go visit him you wondered why they never broke. why the glass didn't just shatter when you pulled and sometimes, when he wasn't looking, you'd slam it extra hard behind you (just to see) but it never broke. sometimes you wished it did break. sometimes you wish he would have been furious with you too, that he'd scream at you for breaking his fancy glass door with the metal handles but he never did. he never gets angry with you, it's okay, it's fine. he loves you. anyways, anyways, she works at a law building too except your father's name is on the fancy glass doors and you don't think her name is on anything but the front desk.

your mother wears sensible sneakers and it makes you so mad. these white tennis shoes and she rolls the cuff of her jeans up and shops at aeropostale for zip ups and who even goes there anymore? she's so damn small and it makes you so mad because you have to protect her. because you love her, you love her too fucking much and she wears sensible sneakers and gives you ten dollar bills when you're going out to the movies and whispers "don't tell your father" as if you ever would because it's your secret and you get to keep it and it means she loves you. and she buys you forty dollar jeans but not from aeropostale because who even goes there anymore? her hands smell like windex and she used to take your's and open the glass doors to your father's office after dentist appointments and you'd all go out to lunch and talk about your brother and sometimes when she looks at you, she see's an infant's coffin. sometimes you see a tiny little skeleton in the reflection of her eyes. and she wears sensible sneakers and you want to take care of her always and you pity her, you hate it but you pity her.

you know this is the right building, you can just feel it. you can feel it and it makes your stomach throb with something heavy and it feels like you might just pass out at any minute and some phantom hand is gripping your heart and just, squeezing, and you're crossing the street and adjusting your shirt and you can see her through the big window. looking down, she's wearing glasses- does that mean you'll need glasses? no, your vision is fine (without her help) and you're fine (without her help). and the door handles are different here and you're pretty sure they wouldn't ever break and she's just over there and you can't quite move yet because she's wearing diamond earrings.

and she has a job, a good job, and a wedding ring so what was it? were you weak, the runt puppy? were your cheeks not red enough or your tiny wrinkled toes not cute enough? what was so wrong with you? and you want to know, you want to walk right up and ask her,  "why wasn't i good enough? why'd you throw me away?" you could, if you wanted to, she's right over there and the handles on these doors won't break and her jaw slopes the same way your's does and that makes you mad. that makes you so mad and you push through the doors and you walk right up to her and put both your elbows on the desk and stare right down at her. she swivels her chair around, places the phone on hold, and stares directly at you without a hint of recognition in her eyes.

"Can I help you?" and when you hear her speak it does weird things to your insides and you feel like your skin is made of magnets and your guts are going to be pulled apart and she doesn't know you at all but her voice. that voice, the ring of it, should have woken you up every morning and that face should have been the face you looked up at from your crib and she should have been your mother but she wasn't. she was supposed to give you ten dollars for the movies and tell you not to smudge windows and her hand was supposed to be on your forehead when you were sick and it wasn't. she wasn't. and you want to tell her all of these things and you want to ask why. why. why. and she doesn't get it, and she's looking at you harder now because you're standing here and not talking and you feel your eyes glazing over but you can't stop it.
"i want to go here"
"'Go here?' You mean you want to make an appointment with the Doctor?" and it isn't a law building but a doctor's office and theres a framed picture of a tooth behind her head and how fucking stupid is that? because people should put things they love in frames, your father has your mother in a frame. and she's supposed to have you in a frame, right here on the desk. she's supposed to have some shitty school picture that embarrasses you right there in front of her. patients are supposed to come in with rotten teeth and they're supposed to ask, "oh, is that your daughter?" and she's supposed to say "yes, that is my daughter and she has perfect jaw structure just like me and i buy her forty dollar jeans and love her very much." and thats how it's supposed to go, just like that, but it's not. that's fine, that's okay.

and no, it's not fine and it's not okay and you're going to just say it. you're going to say "hi, hello, i am your flesh and blood and you threw me out. you gave me away and i could have landed anywhere and anything could have happened to me and you didn't care. and you never sent any cards or presents or let me know you fucking existed and since then i've never fit in anywhere or belonged to anyone because i was supposed to belong to you but you didn't want me."

and you don't say a word because the roof of your mouth is made of magnets and it's sealing your lips together and she's starting to get it now. you want to ask her if her hair gets dry in the winter too. you want to ask her what your real father is like. and she's starting to get it now and her lips are made of magnets too but repelling each other and she's raising her hand to her mouth and just, looking at you. she's looking at you so much, just staring at your face as if she could never see you enough. she's going to cry, she doesn't have a right to cry. you're going to cry, oh god please don't cry.

and you bet her hands don't smell like windex and you bet she'd never buy you forty dollar jeans. you bet she would never wear white sneakers or shop at aeropostale. and she had her chance, she had her chance and suddenly you want to go home. you want to stare at your stock photo frame parents and you want to be part of them. you want to be frozen in a casual smile or on a beach having fake fun. you're sure she's saying something behind you but you're already out the door by the time you realize that you've started to move your feet.

you want to go home and you know exactly where that is.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

i am going for be responsible for the floors
and when a lightbulb burns black at 2 a.m., i am going to have to
walk in the cold to Duane Reade and stand, braless and half asleep
in line with a new package of four-


sometimes i have to remember that i am an adult

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Binghamton flooded last summer, drenched
carpets and turned roofs into green shingle islands-

i wonder if it started with our hotel room, if it came rushed from
under our door because we were treading, weren't we?
turned all the faucets on and muffled the sounds
of clumsy hands, pretending to be as naive as you were

and no longer are.

i was clawing to your back just to stay afloat
Binghamton flooded last summer and i think
i could have saved us-
had i known the difference between drowning
and holding your breath. 

Sunday, March 24, 2013

mark twain drank a lot/
ginsberg was a pessimist/
waking up to her.

against your belt buckle/
pushing the best parts of me;/
why i cry in bed.

we have created music/
your dark hair on the pillow/
i do love this song.

her release, like an/
iron file scraping down my back/
pry my prison bars.

she used her soft voice/
haven't smoked cigarettes/
like this since high school .
and suddenly,

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

bukowski wrote about being drunk and dirty and 
terrible to women so on the
off chance
that he was calm and curled in her sheets,
an 8 o'clock shadow pressed to her cheek
it would be a pleasant surprise.

we do that, 
lead you to believe that our words are skin
and give you the ugliest of them-
old turtle shell poems.

then we roll over, show you the pink underside of our bellies 
when you're in the bathroom,
crying over us.


[unzipped my wrists and pages fell out.]
do you believe i am a cup?
a jug, an empty milk gallon? 



what if 
i've been filled to the top
already and what if it's 
just not enough
to put the fire out.

Monday, March 18, 2013

she's a blistered fever now,
always.

"we carry scars where other people have touched us 
callously,
sand paper hands, come on, moldy fruit, sweet and weeping, but you're wet-
and now we are dry.
sick, cancered, 
perpetually running from the morning
after,
always."


cored like an apple.
and all my bouquets were made of vowels-
much nicer

Saturday, March 16, 2013

we huddled in a catholic school bathroom stall
comparing cuts like baseball cards.
we were gluttons for sickness- furious with one another for their weakness 
and jealous at any wounds wider than our own.

they were cigarettes.

and i was a master of myself,
i was the best- i was
magnificent.

pretty girls fell in love with my destruction.
the car crash, the charred hulk frame
of absolute metal hollow; something that once was but is 
no longer there.
there are things that i do not tell to anyone 
like how i trace myself and the fibrous tissue weighs me down more than i pretend 
that it does and 
i talk of this to people but i do not feel it anymore and i do not know why that is. 

on tuesday nights i occasionally 
smell hot heavy blood.
in it's torrents, in it's mass quantities, i see a
sewer pump draining, i see 3 and a half ruined
towels[veins].
i bet they were rust-red in the washing machine and i bet my mother
cried into her crinkled hands.


the noose broke so we turned into branches and leaves and wonderful things of
green. 
the roots formed of their own accord and 
i am no longer magnificent,
yet they still think i'm the best.
depression is an excess and happiness is a void of
misery.
the most overwhelming empty.
i am a radient vacancy. 
for a genius you are kind of 
dumb.

occasionally everything about love
makes me nauseous-
the heaviness of them 
in your mouth
like sweet sweat in the morning
just a few degrees too hot.


but i want you to burn me
up.

your fear makes you beautiful which speaks to how
strange 
we both are. 

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

The Rapture

I was in line at the post office, I wish I wasn't. I should have been with my parents in my half drowned upstate town, I should have been in a church in some last ditch effort to squeeze my way in, to jump the subway corral into heaven while no one was looking. I should have been in bed with a lover, unapologetically, whispering the elegant things that only the end of the world can conjure on one's tongue. No, I needed stamps (for what fucking letters?) so I was in line at the post office. 

He assured me it wasn't about the gay thing, I was just a shitty person. It's fine, really, because nothing is different than it was before. If anything, people are more fun than before. No one's scared anymore. The apocalypse came and went like any other Tuesday afternoon.

"that's the definition of romance"
no, 
you are romance 
with bedroom hair.

i am toxic, gaseous. 
you are full of solar flares and dark nail polish-
we siphon the helium off each other's skin and 
the breathing out of each other's mouthes.

binary stars don't fall-
 they spin.



i am restless from her.





Tuesday, March 5, 2013

bouncing back and forth like
a trapped fly[in the marrows of my bones]

i knew you and then i met you 
again today
and again tomorrow.

bouncing back and forth, 
smashing against the window pane with a tiny
tap tap tap.
i know you're lost within me- please
be careful in there.[the door hinges stick and the company is even worse.]

dragging my windbitten fingertips over your palms
and you're always lit up from behind like some florescent 
bulb under a sheet.
i seem indifferent but i am melting.

somewhere in the corner a fly angrily
hurls itself against the glass of the cafe front door
tap tap tap.


[i have a new favorite movie]

Sunday, March 3, 2013

a realization that maybe the best years
have been wasted.
it
's not quite fair
but what is?


grow up, you're already
grown.