It’s warm.

It’s a trash heap.

It’s home.

The center is a house of afterthoughts built with bricks of memories —

They’re good for you, those bricks of memory cold-pressed like your green juice

Forever cycling between pictures of faces and places, new thoughts get plastered to a dome that kisses the clouds

Sweet grass crumbles under your feet – green soldiers scattered about brown footprints for their fallen comrades

It smells like a library but with no book in sight, paradise is no longer fiction

Fiction is a figment of the imagination and there is no fiction here.

When you look at the sky, the stars look back and wave before they die; you are the last face they see

Do they resent this las moment stolen by you and your trash heap of memories?

Where do you run for cover when facing the wrath of angry stars mourning for a fallen constellation?

Do stars pray? Where does a star worship the ground it walks on?

Where does a star seek spiritual security in the temple of its own construction

A trash heap of thoughts and memories is where I go – no windows or walls yet a home just the same

A roof over a head and a door for safe passage —

How do stars find safe passage?


I have not slept in days

Days run from me on marathon dreams against asphalt scented headboards

If I move a fraction to the left, you can feel the curvature of my spine etched into these iron bars,

If I move a mile to the right, you can see these iron bars welded to my spine

I stand up every so often to straighten out curves in unwanted places –

Maybe this is why I don’t sleep.

In my dreams there is a girl with a face that looks like mine with a body that looks like hers

In my dreams I know damn well it’s oil and water and no science experiments could make that body mine

Maybe that’s why I don’t sleep, so I’m not disappointed in what I wake up to

I don’t sleep because you’ll never see me swim (not just because I can’t, but because I won’t fit the attire)

Maybe I don’t sleep because you won’t see me grace a magazine cover because I don’t fit the qualifications

But me people tell me I do:

“You look fine”

“What’re you talking about”

“You look great”

Well thank-you; that’s sweet

But I don’t remember your mouth syncing with what my eyes are seeing

Maybe that’s why I don’t sleep

Or maybe it’s because I nap all day

Or because I make impulsive purchases at 2 am because I crave hot chips

Or my phone is blowing up and I’m waiting.

Maybe I don’t sleep because I’m sticking it to the man – the patriarchy and the government, both have to go

But either way – I have not slept in days

Days run from me on marathon dreams against asphalt scented headboards

I can neither move to the left nor jump to the right


I have not slept in days.

Peach Pit

Little peaches hang from crooked finger branches, heavy with sweat and iron

Daisies trampled under feet caked with present and presents past, watch as

Snowflake cherubs sprint across wallpaper stripped skies like

Summertime bullets in clapboard neighborhoods.

Ring true the bounce and spring from apple blossoms smoked and smothered

By ashes reigning from pulpits gently battered

Cherry Red Raspberry Blue

There is a popsicle stain on the pants I bought to take to college

That is what I get for being impatient.

Had I worn different pants; had I not eaten the popsicle,

But I fall in love every time I open my freezer door –

colored corn syrup

clear food dye

100% not juice

I often think that popsicle flavors are calls to children’s imaginations and stabs to the adult psyche

Red is not a flavor, but a color

And yet to me, it tastes like strawberries or cherries

But I know strawberry and cherry are just code for red 40

I love it when the flavor is unrecognizable: “blue”

Blue tastes like blue raspberry

Blue raspberry is not a fruit

Then blue berry it must be, but if it were – blue berry – I would know.

It would taste nothing like blue raspberry

Moth Queen

I do not know what attracts me to

flames I know will burn me.

I do not know why I make the choices I do,

but they are made.

Searching for these reasons is like searching for a piece of the puzzle

that was never included

I do not know who told me my decisions mattered,

but I do care

I do not know where I would be if I didn’t


I do know that burns heal

I do know that paths can be taken and new ones forged

Whether we find what we’re looking for or not, we need to know we tried

I do know.

My Room Is A Mess

My room is a mess

Two feet cannot stand on the same island – you must straddle the cluttered seas,

The commanders of two




Captain my voyage from bed to door

Slay the monsters rolling in deep light on floors much cleaner than mine

Be careful not to slip on the rug never straightened



Do not trip on the purse, contents spilled like drunken secrets from a midnight masquerade

Two feet cannot stand on the same island,

But two feet can balance despite waves crashing at ankled palm trees





We are strong amidst salty spray

Chaos’ waves do not drench our firm

My room is a mess but we are not adrift on the waves that undulate through the floor

My room is a mess but we are sat beneath a palm,

Book in hand,

Riding the cacophony


New Black Mercedes

She doesn’t really know how to work it – that’s why I sit next to her

The seat’s always a little too far back and I’m just tall enough for the sun not to burn my eyes too badly

The leather’s black, but off…but not quite off-black

You can’t call it gray because it’s not that

The most accurate you can get is probably coal but that would still miss the mark

Angel perfume is her own hanging air freshener, permanent as we move from one obsidian to another

Tissue box in the back with only 2.5 intact sides out of the 6 – it’s a staple in this black oval on wheels

Personalized license plate but commercial all the same