Search This Blog

Sunday, August 13, 2017

With a Capital You

I haven’t written very many poems wince we’ve been together.
And certainly not
poems to you.

It’s almost like I don’t want to jinx
by writing words that feel

too small to convey all that you are.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Even as I have become 
freed of the weights
that were holding
me down
I find myself longing 
for the quiet comfort
of a routine. 

As much as I longed to be set free, and now I am, 
I am held by the longing
to be anchored to something

What would happen if I let go of that longing?

Where might I float to next?
Where might I begin to fly?

--written 10/5/14

Monday, August 22, 2016

Love? Poem.

I think it's significant that I have never written a poem about you. 
You never know when it's the last night you are going to spend with someone. 
Once, I thought I knew, and we spent the whole night crying together and holding each other. 
That last line was not about you. 

I think if we knew it had been the last night, I would have cherished it more.
Instead I was thinking about how we had to get up early to take you to the airport.
At the terminal, you didn't kiss me goodbye
Even after I asked. 

Maybe that should have been my first clue that we were getting 
to the ending part.
Instead I assumed it was because I was healing from a cold sore you didn't want to catch. 

I think about how unromantic cold sores are. How pedestrian. 
How you told me to stop eating nuts.

Maybe the whole relationship we had
felt like healing from a sore.

That is not true, probably. 
You said "I won't be made into the bad guy here."

I said < "I don't want to play the victim." >
I thanked you for being brave enough to end it, said I thought
I might have been the one to do it if you hadn't. You said, "Bullshit."

I think about how in four months you never slept at my place. 
I think about your black boxer briefs
that I watched you pull up under your jeans, the morning you were getting 
ready to go to the airport, 
and I think about how it looked like you were putting on a uniform, 
A dress-code for a different city,

And I think about how each geographical location
has its own unspoken dress-code,
mostly due to the weather,
and I think about how the heavy layers of San Francisco fit you 
better than the unhindered tank tops, shorts and sandals
of the desert. 

And I think about how you're only here for your grandma.
And how this is just a stopping-point for you, 
and how I was a mile-post. 

And how you tried to get me to see that from our third date, 
But how much I wanted to make you my home. 

Monday, March 28, 2016

Like what you see? Support the artist!

If you like what you read here, you can now send money directly to me! Click the link below. 

If you'd like a copy of my chapbook to be sent to you, just put your mailing address in the notes section and make sure you send at least $7.00. ($5.00 is the cost of the book & 2.00 covers postage.)

Thursday, March 24, 2016


I keep writing myself
so I can remember
not to fall in love
with you.

But then you go and give
the keys to your house
and tell me to
hang around as long
as I want and watch
cartoons while
you work.

And then when I say
no thanks,
you insist on
helping me
load my bike into
my car

And this is where I would normally
declare my independence
and say
I can do it myself,

But you make me
want to let you
do things for me. Because
you seem to like it

And so when
you grab
the check and pay
the bill every time
we go out to eat,

I no longer insist
on splitting everything

I want to let you
Take care of me.

And this is something
I haven't
felt in a while.
So although
I keep writing
these poems
to remind myself
not to fall in love,

You reach over
to me in the
and pull me
close to your body,
hold me tight,
and offer to make me

And bring it to me in
bed, hot and dark,
your smile
as bright
as the day outside
your windows,
blocked by metal shutters
so your room stays
dark and cool
no matter the time of day.

And all these reminders
I keep writing on the walls
are not working
at all.

Who wouldnt love (Reprise)

After the first time we fucked I wrote a poem about you titled
The Man who Would not Love Me.
I wanted to remind myself that I knew you were going to break my heart
And that I had entered into this agreement willingly.

The time we stopped fucking for a month my
grieving heart splintered into tiny shards of glass
And I wanted to use one of them to cut it out of my body so I would not have to feel anymore what it felt like to love you.
But instead I searched for the poem to remind myself, (willingly)
and it--
like my dignity--
had disappeared.

The third time I asked you if we could start fucking again,
You asked me what was going to be different.
"I've put you into a different box. It'll be different." I said. "Trust me." You didn't--
But then: "You're a grownup, so I'm only asking you this once: Are You Sure?"
What I didn't say:
I knew that you weren't going to love me back how I wanted to be loved.
And I wanted to love you anyway.

The time I broke my leg
You brought me books and movies and laughter
"HEY NOW, none of this moping-" You said.
You gave me encouragement and guidance. You said you would have been at the hospital holding my hand through the pain if you could (I didn't believe you, but it was nice of you to say.)

But you would not do the one thing I wanted most: lay down in my bed and hold me.
When you went home I cried and then had a crazy-freak-out Percocet drug trip where you appeared to me as an apparition.
You said, as directly as you'd ever been to me in real time, "I'm not going to be that guy for you."

The first time I really accepted you for who you are,
I was able to love you for who you were able to be with me
Instead of who I wanted you to be. 

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

No more broken woman poems

I’m done with
broken woman

I’m done with

I no longer
want to have to

“What happened to me”
to new lovers

I’m done with

I’m done with

I reject the
of unwholeness.

I become
whole. I exude full. I create

the totality of
I am not
what happened

I am not the

who was violated

I am not
what he did

with his sick
to my little girl
his sick wanting hands

I am not
the unwelcome
of my
spirit’throat, silencing
me for years

crushing my inner

his mistake
does not
define me.
his sickness doesnotdefineme
does not create
any part
of my reality anymore.

I am whole
I am love
I am free
I am navigator
I am lustful
I am desirous

of strong woman
and man
hands into
my spiritbeingbody

I am lover
I am goddess
I am Her.
I am

Not broken woman
Not shamed little girl
Not his secret
Not mistake.