Thursday, December 1, 2016

Trump Country

In the dark guest room
icy blue humming of a PC
and light from the windows of the dollhouse 
at the foot of the bed
keep the slits of my eyes open
It's like being Mother Earth
Enormous woman
Laying down
her body shadowy and soft
Disturbed by our little human activities
A tweaker cabin on a hill
Surrounded by torched trees
She tries to get some beauty sleep
Rubbing keef out of her eyes 
Sticky barbed flowers 
Some tiny men
drinking pickle backs
yelling chemically into the night
A crow in the canyon

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

What's Up It's Me 9/27

so confused about 
where I am
missles flying into the waters 
of last week
a small treat may tide me over 
until the next atrocity
and the moments feel short 
but a shorter distance 
from suicide is better

a sunburst from all
the sensitive places 


which time zone to abide
in terms of wine
a hankering for death
hourglasses in my cheeks


how devaststaing to set an alarm
to choose the exact sound on the
other end of sleep


but I can’t sleep anywhere
dream on pause with the twinkle
it stopped just like a movie
me looking around like


shit is serious and I want to 
bare my soul but 
I never thought it would be quite like this
the way the ants come for my blood
the way our drinking water goes green
the way the maggots match my rice 
how do we all do it?
how are we not constantly shitting
our pants looking for a new excuse for a treat?
or at least what’s in between
these tiny little bones that last us just one moment
scared of scared and scared of the preference for
rolling down hill, even the ants seems confused
and they rule the world


writing dark on this pool day
golden august friend day
like a heavy comforter in summer
like a wet, felt blanket
in the middle of the night


a throne on a track
royal, yes but
somewhat geriatric
the throne moves forward
the backdrop is painted
drapped hills
rolling around
the pixels, blurry and
creased over
the corners of
a throne case

a small dog runs in front
a small dog intercepts
the start of imperialism 


things happen this way
a charged body rumbles
and passes in just
one moment
and it can be
loud even
the intimacy of teeth and
I was there
the beating heart in one’s neck
the flushed skin of being alive
how exhilarating to encounter
this frozen display
in the dark on 
a Sunday

? ? ? ?

a tiny arm 
is pulling a Q-tip 
far inside my ear 
against the doctor’s orders
while I’m desperate 
to tug in a breeze 
with my mind
for this window is nothing but
a portal 
into more hot air
air even hotter than in here

notes are taken
poems are handed to me

our fascia like a stocking
our fashion 
wrapped in summer
stuck in seeking
foliage and
the corner of my eye is
the corner of a leaf
and the corner of my window
is open, they see me
the backs of my eyelids
are cherries glazed red
an old face is looking at my bed
an old neighbor, a dead leaf
those shine marks
a gross closeness
I can’t forget
the dirty pants
like my own and I’m
am I in a glaze
a 19 year old in a turtle neck,
am I too old for that?
too old for candy or
England or autum

a hovering head is
as light as a feather
as light as no breeze 
all I wanted was to write
something light
as light as a feather
is that house yellow or
is that house lit
a 19 year old in a turtle neck
in the garden at St. Marks
nose dripping in the middle
of October and we wonder
where are you now
the santa ana winds
and their fusions of
past obsessions
despite the genre we knew
what we meant
we know now that some things
stay heavy forever

a beautiful display of friendship

not wanting to forget the power of each face

accepting a poem in the bathroom stall 

? ? ? ?

one color for everything

? ? ? ?

tan lines giving fingers a webbed look
a dot for a belly button
the beach inside my body
it’s psychedelic no drugs
touching me


egg shells
chewed gum
dirty tuperware
what the fucks it for
to do lists
long hair
I care


Monday, September 19, 2016


Vocal doubling in music is 
hummingbird food to me
the cherry on top 
voices coated in sugary red syrup

On the way to the airport
I've already left the place
I'm somewhere inside myself
Looking for symbols and signs
to color the next chapter

Emo Cntd.
Unease traipses lightly around me
an overhead projector casts bad thoughts
onto the walls of my dark hallway behind it all
A hallway like a gap between
Like I'm always peaking around the corner 
at my life, my friends
At the space in between
I really see it like a hallway
Or a layer of asphalt underneath 
with a lowered ceiling that is the ground above 
The space between how I feel 
and how I want to feel
The space between
how... . .

White Jeep Compass
All of our boxed things in a room
All the way across the country
Above the garage 
With sloping ceilings and 
Thick beige carpeting 

My baby's hands twitch
like a puppy when he sleeps
An electrified corpse 
My sweet dreaming Frankenstein

The Spanish moss 
is sleeping in the trees
Every mark on my face 
is a bad thought in my mind


Why Does Clothing Factor So Heavily In My Dreams 1
The humongous store in town 
We take a train to work there 
A red and white gingham print floor length dress
And beaded curtains made up of 
dusty pearly plastic swans and angels for sale

Kiki is growing LSD in flowers
They look like big fluffy hibiscus flowers, lots of chiffon-y layers
The more woven and complex the vines on the trellis,
the more potent the acid
The plants look like braided challah 

Why Does Clothing Factor So Heavily In My Dreams 2
Gap made a line of clothes with nonsense statements on them 
One shirt said 
badass womemem HONestly yellow is for
ft. the image of a blender full of gradient juice

the coolest item was a long red jersey dress 
cut like a large straight t-shirt 
but with Victorian puff sleeves made out of sparkly pink & white tulle 
The back said DEMONER in thick all caps
ft. a beautiful print of a baby devil doll flying

Sunday, August 28, 2016


*oily black duck ("2017")

no one has their shit together at this passover seder
everything is all wrong, everyone is standing
not sitting let alone reclining, everyone is chatting

this year's plague* is just my right height
I notice I am the only one with blood on my pinky
and so I dramatically drop some onto a cocktail napkin

2017 comes too close to me and so I run into the woods
it's still winter, tiles of hard snow checker the ground
I drop the wine, the blood, all my joy red around my feet

Friday, August 5, 2016

Treat's Moment

last night demons
this night music
my head on the chopping block
I look to one side and feel

Crazy Cloud

wanna roll around in the country
on the tree tops
could be anywhere

top-spinning gloves
arm protectors
women's bodies
burned in patterns of flowers
from their kimonos

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

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Cake Egg 

tall boy on the train
I thought we'd see the hills
I sleep in jeans
feel thirsty, bothered
eating a cake egg
it's all the industrial
people places

again a little thing like
a bleary eye
fucking the fantasy of
anime views

Walking Up In The Morning With Only What's Inside Of You

a scary taxi driver
talking to me
saying thank you for riding with him
I'm sorry but I hate you and I'm late
because of the time difference

I left the mumbling driver and
passed through the flimsiest of doors
collapsing like a Japanese fan
when I touched it

Miss Her

I know so well the body
of my childhood friend
how she wore her rings and
the visible vein

One Hour Island

following a wave out
the boat makes the sound
of all the car windows open

I'd like my brain in the foreground
of a photo not so much my face
but they are the same
smaller islands behind me

it feels like someone important just died
with the sudden pastel mist and
the birds treading air in the clearing

maybe I should get tattoos over such
visible veins
large dark distractions
would I miss them though
the blue

Dirty California #1

can passion be poured in any pot?
eating my breakfast around a bowl
of rat trappings

the guy on Figueroa with his face
sliced in half
makes me need to sneeze
I understand 
the differences in
smells of pee

is it the light or a yellow house?
write something so soft
and light as a feather
how do you say

I’m just on this really beautiful walk
with every other house Boo Radley's
by Disney and our mailbox is full
of shiny red cherries 

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of being prepared in the rain
and saying one's own name

So Far

it's a nice cigarette city
old rusty trucks, umbrellas
and ponchos scootering
with sandals half on

That's Nice  May That Linger In My Thoughts #1

incense and peppermints
a strong urge to go to the gardens


so that was spring
a single moment of rain
one street of purple trees

May I Thark You Need An Attitude Adjustment #1

the world is so fucking dark
a broken dim switch holy shit
I can't even move or I'll cry
from lack from of distraction

a fly is interested in my bloody napkin
and I think I'm gonna throw up

and even my view is so narrow
as the strip of light in the morning
that hurts his eyes


how maintenance inhales time
a soft mass of fractions


breathing chest
I'm right here

Again Bring Back Ur Life

am I dying in China?
dying a little bit everywhere
all the time but

not reality until close
non reality implodes


as unsurprising to die as to find
oneself in Japan

Monday, August 1, 2016

Olive Tree

A cobweb shining between the table
and the chair in the morning

My dream last night said
God is a girl dancing
God is a horse in the city

I don't want to write about my family
The stories repulse me from every angle

My little sister is disappointed
that my teddy bear doesn't have more to say
But he and I have an understanding beyond language
We want silence
Daydreams and private thoughts
I tell her Yellow Bear is a zen master

As the passenger in a fast car
I imagine laying my eye against the metal freeway partition
Laying the inside of my wrist on it
Delicately, to slice

To distract from the slicing
I look for God in the olive trees
Animated by our speeding past
Olive trees older than Christ
Grown split and twisting
Growing into powerful witches
Into shadowy Gothic doorways of churches
Into the perfect houses for a spirit
To settle down and dwell in
Maybe that's what Ikkyu's temple is like

Jesus didn't have to say
God is an olive tree
maybe he did, I wouldn't know
But the people who planted the olive trees BC
were probably doing fine without Him


A sunflower taller than me
I stand under it
and imagine it as a shower head

The iron structure of the bridge from the window of the J train
looks like X's and O's against the pink sunrise

Friday, July 15, 2016


I take a nap every day
I set a timer on my phone for 25 minutes
I fight to keep my eyes closed at first
Sometimes I'm so tired I forget to breathe
A mess of images
Today the song You & Me by Goldie
Then I slip into the shoe of my body
Like a rock falling to the bottom of a river
And time slows down infinitely
Until the alarm goes off with the sound of crickets

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Murder Broadway

Put colors in songs
where they belong
For clothes what's right
is black and white

Over a dozen people overdosed
at Myrtle Broadway late last night
They don't know on what
but it most likely has something to do with k-2
On the radio they described a scattered gaggle of people
shaking, leaning against fences and fire hydrants

Lauren wants to hear Birthday by the Sugar Cubes
I'd love to feed horses sugar cubes today
a bodily memory of my 17th birthday at the Anne Frank House
I looked for her view of the trees and the moon through the high windows

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Fruit : 雙雙對對恩恩愛愛

I have love reserved
like big baskets of the juiciest fruit
wrapped and bowed for my special people
but I want to be a Creature of Love
for everyone

I'm recalibrating myself now
to be like the smoothie at the spa
to be someone's step stool to happiness
Butterfly Talking
I want to lighten your footsteps
bloom you
a garnish on every glass

Friday, July 8, 2016

Glass of Ice Violet Dice

Sampling the creative fruits of my peers
A show where the noise is peacefully mean
I imagine a surgery to get a glass of ice implanted

I can go there with you
to the sounds like tiny rakes dragging tiny leaves
but I have heard enough noise music in my life 
to fill all of the shoes I own

I Wicked Witch home on my violet bicycle 
lean left lean right
I like to steer by moving as little as possible 
so it's like i'm steering with my mind

I see a black cat frozen 
one paw out front in a sneaky low contrapposto 
I see a man in the same stance 
I hear him wrapping or unwrapping something 
Sharp and clear crinkling of paper 
amplified in the empty street
Candy or cigarette
when it is hot we move as little as possible
looking like frozen things melting

When the friend is the phone 
When the phone is the friend

I'm bored of the New York movie
There's just the one now
I live in it but it's theirs 
The bug world that I used to escape into
the huge river in a gutter after it rains

when I was a little girl
I had a ragdoll
the only doll I ever owned

shiny trash on the street was alive
small mysterious animals
sun bleached decorations in windows
to personalize My Big Dusty Apple
It's all theirs now

Ice cream men must dream 
to a soundtrack of the ice cream song 
I try hard not to melt all over my friends

How literary this story is 
but I will never be the one to write it
Lucia tells me I would love her new squat 
See the sign with the dog and the gramophone? See the dog?
She directs me on Google Maps Street View over the phone 
See the sign? See the little dog?
Keep going west and you'll see our house
See where there's a place where stairs should be? 
my rooms right above there. We've fixed it up a lot 
we've taken a lot of the boards off the windows, 
we should take off more maybe, what do you think about that Manny? 
Yeah well I know, he says we have to stay low key but anyways
I'm going to send you a picture of my room I mean not of the mess on the floor 
but architecturally its really nice Livi you'd love it Livi

You can't put all your eggs in one basket
especially like golden eggs
Ya...really disappointing

The coolest boy at school 
who was also a ferocious dog
a huge black and white sort of greyhound with shaggy fur
A little too skinny in his clothes 
a sloping nose and big smiling mouth
sort of Joey Ramone sort of JK
Bad posture like he was turning into a dog 
he was turning into a dog
I wanted to be near him but he bit my hands

The shabbiest house on the block has the best roses
The haunted house with boards over the basement windows

In June I saw a charming group
Of roses all begin to droop
I pepped them up with chicken soup!
Sprinkle once
Sprinkle twice
Sprinkle chicken soup with rice

I love going to work early Saturday mornings 
My brain is still sleeping
golden light at its rising slant 

Wearing all white, you know this dilemma,
but all of the white items are slightly different shades
Various stages of graying and yellowing
I think the only way to do it right would be 
to buy all the white items new at the same time 

I set a fire 
To exorcise my fate
When I watched her turn to soot and ash
I didn't know I would also catch
Fire flame 
I forgot my name
flame, fire
I'm horse lame

The desire that the eyelash 
I wished on in the airplane 
would flutter all the way down 
to the ground below

Saturday, April 23, 2016

Tree Poem

ants have taken over my life
my wall
there are so many
I follow them
I want to know
where they’re going and
where they came from

it’s leaning so far to one side my tree

I have been trained to hate
the type of car it might fall onto
made my Nazis

swirly mocha bark like
dessert covered chocolate ants
a trunk must be so strong to be
so narrow

where are the ants going on a tree
so many like in my house
I know which omen it was
to get the ant tattoo
last summer
how honest to be when
writing poetry? as opposed to
lit? the greatest hits of lit
the greatest cryptics

being alone seems so nice
being alone seems like
such a good idea
until your eyes are bleary
and a little thing like blear
can fuck the entire
fantasy of solitude

my walden experiment

I just know one day I’ll wake up dead
but is that thinking too far ahead?

a muscle-y sweet potato
masculine, nearly veiny
like a thick strong arm
the ant trails are fervent in other places
are they coming and going from
inside the muscly tree?

I’m not quite ready to convert
to words
the bark flakes off so easy
even with the weakness of my
left hand, is that bad?
is it sick? 

speeding in Greece as a teen
on a ferry, fixated
on the white foamy water
what did it look like? precisely something else
I realized everything in nature was
the same, absolutely one

skin perhaps, a cloud, the white foam
something else
how reassuring, how genius

the wind always stops time
now under the tree
then on the boat
my clothing whipping against my
taught, golden skin

I am aware of my tan shoulders
and my somber profile
I don’t want to lose this feeling
of my pristine sexuality
but I can already feel it passing
my body moving forward without me

the wind was always enough
the sun and it’s setting
imagining me, sunny, funny

looking solely at the sunlit leaves
somewhere else still, even as
one of the office ladies revs up her chevy

maybe it’s a movie, this universal softness
maybe I am transported because sunlit leaves are comforting
and so we find them wherever we go

the temperature is neither here nor there
it is the same as my body
it is solid afternoon

the ants have noticed me
I have noticed the half moon in the blue sky

in April '08 when Zoë and I rode our bikes 
to Brookdale park, we laid together in the grass

I know this park well, it opens doors in my mind
the still, green sprawl like Marie Antoinette the movie
makes me want to travel back in time for garden cake

we were looking up at the leaves and when my eyes
unfocused I said
they look animated
I hoped that was good, perceptive
because she was really cool and trying
to make me cool too

as the light fades to gold I become less
intimated by the tree
the mood has softened
the good drama has ensued
memories of golden hours when
life has felt drunk, hopeful and hot
but this tree is like something dead
old with it’s crackling bark and
an ant infestation
it’s branches moved by the wind but
not by their own body
like a dead guy’s hair

can you experience every sense at once?
this parking lot is really beautiful
I can understand that but can I really know
how beautiful it is while eating
sunflower seeds and/or writing?

someone’s car horn is making a little
hip hop beat at a low volume

trying to redirect the ants or
at least give them an obstacle
but I think they are so much smarter than me

dreaming about ants wondering
where the big ones went
laying in bed and I can’t tell the difference
between the inside and the outside
of my body as my stomach swirls
dreaming of a “conversation” panning out
and slowly the other person becomes retarded
and I get a sinking feeling and wake up
sweating and say Tyler? but forget
the thing and he’s so awake and lucid
with eyebrows raised above the bed 

am I high on ant poison?
they must have designated trails because
one would often bump into another
coming from the opposite direction
and stall for a moment like
excuse me
this makes me wanna be a writer
who looks harder
at 16 Stanford place I would seriously collect ants
in a magnifying dish and now I don’t need to

my symptoms are beginning to string themselves together
as I am (am I?)
developing something that develops in the early twenties
where I lose all my composure and I’ll wish I had made
more paintings while I could
I am in a TV interview at age thirty something
with little to no muscle mass, already looking twice as old as I should
I’m shaky and serious
my supportive aid Megan, is backstage
she created my perfect up-do
as I sat staring into the vanity mirror
at my somber profile, longingly
hoping for nature to rewind

maybe that’s who I used to be
maybe that’s why I’m so paranoid anytime
a fingertip goes numb or my chest pains
return, is it really heartbreak
or is it really ant poison

I’m so lucky I’m good at driving

handing my credit card to Dylan
the mechanic over a gun catalog
open to a page with a rifle floating
above a swastika and I wonder
what am I paying for?

I hit the one car with the like,
leather bumper jacket

mostly the ants are distracting
and symbolic

my tree was actually quite sweet and tender
on the corner of a median

I miss the tree in my front yard
at 16 Stanford place
Montclair, NJ

the ant blood smeared across my white-topped desk
maybe that’s my poison
seeping into my finger tips
it’s like the old tampon soaked in vodka
the neglected ways to get wasted
through seeping,
ant blood to the fingertips
trap glue to the toe pads
unfiltered water
carbon monoxide
too much homeostasis
too many chills