30 December 2012

Dead Romance Language

Words once spoken in whispers,
between giggles,
shouted from car windows,
murmured at the ends of telephone conversations,
are losing all meaning.

Watching La Vie en Rose in my black robe,
sipping macchiato with two shakes of cinnamon,
dabbing my wrists with the scent of lavender and honey,
taking the streetcar to the book store in the rain,
speaking with friends who assure me you are well,
I feel like a foreigner in lands that were once home to us.

I am told that you will move to Montreal in June.
I am the only remaining speaker of the language of us,
the language of our love, and I have lost fluency.

I struggle to pronounce the most basic phrases.
"I love you,"
"Kiss me now,"
"I need you here,"
All lost to me, lost to the world,
forgotten from lack of use,
eaten up by the prevalence of a more practical tongue.

Forming my lips into that soft 'O',
required in most romance languages,
is now a bitter impossibility.
My mouth has given up trying.


My lips so rarely move
to make the syllables of your name.


09 December 2012

Success!

My flash fiction/prose poem (I dunno what the fuck genre it is) "For Rico/Jack's Last Request" just got accepted for publication by Haunted Waters Press. The word's still out on whether it'll be published in their print publication for Summer 2013 or in their e-journal. I'm pleased either way, though. =]

27 November 2012

Synapses

When did me and myself become a decrepit married couple?
When did we stop sharing our thoughts?
When did we stop seeing each other?
When did we stop looking?
When did we let ourselves go quiet?
When did we let the cold win out and render us immobile?
When did we let our thoughts dissolve into dotted lines, then into nothing at all?
When did we turn into twin ghosts, coexisting in one shadowy body?
When did you become satisfied with cheap comfort?
When did I become self-conscious?
When did you stop questioning my morals?
When did I stop writing things down?
When did you first forget to ask me?
When did I first forget to feel ashamed?
When did we start holding our breath?
Why didn't we think to stop?

26 November 2012

(to get her)

Not sure if my sex life is
shutter(shudder)(shut her)island
or if this one is different.
At least this one's friendly.
Wants to know my favorite color.
Wants to know what i think about.
Wants to know all of my whys(wise)(y's).
Does not remember my sisters' names
but feels bad about it.
Does not mind when i say
nothing(no thing)(no, thing!).
Does not mind when i break down
sobbing because nothing(no thing)(no, thing!)
feels right/feels correctly.

My head is a hedge maze
and i cannot say whether i've seen these roots before
or if i've been lost so long
that everything has begun
to blend together(to gather)(to get her).

27 October 2012

I've Been Eating (For You) pt. 1

"So I'm just a medicine you take when you're sick. You get well, and that's it. I'm put back, on the shelf in your mirror. And it isn't exceptional, the course of our fate. People love and they hate. I guess, it's just our turn to hate." —Bright Eyes, "I've Been Eating (For You)" comics story watercolor painting art lesbian love story heartbreak
"So I'm just a medicine you take when you're sick. You get well, and that's it. I'm put back, on the shelf in your mirror. And it isn't exceptional, the course of our fate. People love and they hate. I guess, it's just our turn to hate." —Bright Eyes, "I've Been Eating (For You)" comics story watercolor painting art lesbian love story heartbreak

"So I'm just a medicine you take when you're sick. You get well, and that's it. I'm put back, on the shelf in your mirror. And it isn't exceptional, the course of our fate. People love and they hate. I guess, it's just our turn to hate." —Bright Eyes, "I've Been Eating (For You)"

17 October 2012

Calla Lilies is now available on Amazon

Calla Lilies, the anthology with my story "Something Like Belonging" in it, is now available on Amazon.com. You can find it here: Calla Lilies.

03 October 2012

Chik on Chik Fil A

This is what happens when I'm watching the presidential debates, and they don't talk about social issues.
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30 September 2012

The thorns they prick my fingertips/ And I remember her soft red lips

I am in love with a photograph. She doesn't love back, but she never changes and that's more than most can promise you.
I keep a spare bedroom for her, here, in my head, should she ever choose to come to life again and dance with me the way that only a memory can.

29 September 2012

Synonymous


“Some people would call them ‘friends,’” said Cass. “I, however, choose to label them ‘straight people who try to sleep with me when they’re drunk and their boyfriends are being assholes.’” She looked up and saw Libby frowning at her phone and went to pour her another glass of wine.

The Case of the Man who Woke Up as a Woman

I'm not sure why I never posted this, but these are some panels from my senior thesis. It's isn't the whole thing, just a few of them. These are all from the first vignette. This one is based on the story of Tiresias, but it's also got some Freudian dream interpretation thrown in. 





Dear man in the Walmart parking lot,


Dear man in the Walmart parking lot who asked me if I like to party and then tried to win me over by spraying me with Ed Hardy perfume when I said, "Not with you,"
Ladies don’t like that.
Sincerely, 
Me

23 September 2012

Aquam an undam?

Once upon a time, there was a man who wanted nothing more than a drink of water. He went to the faucet with a glass and turned the handle, but no water came out. He tried all of the faucets in the house, but there was no water. This made the man even thirstier. He went outside and tried the hose, but there was no water there, either. He decided to take his glass and walk into the city. When he arrived, he tried every store and restaurant, but they had no water to offer him. They all told him the same thing, "I'm sorry, sir," they said. "We're fresh out."
The man saw that some customers at these businesses seemed to be drinking water.
"What about that woman over there?" the man asked one restaurant owner. "She looks like she's got a glass of water."
"We sold her our last glass. I'm sorry for the inconvenience," the owner replied.
Just as the man began to walk toward the woman, thinking he might ask for a small sip, she finished the glass in two large gulps. The man walked away, even thirstier than before.
As the man walked through the city, he noticed posters, billboards, advertisements on painted on buses, people in magazine covers, all of them featuring bottles and cups and pools filled with water. The man grew even thirstier.
He walked to the outskirts of the city, where he where he remembered once putting his feet in a cool, clear spring as a boy. When he reached this stream, he found that the spring was no longer cool nor clear. It was muddy, dried up, all slime and fish carcasses, not at all the way it had looked in his memory. Out of desperation, the man bent down on the bank of what used to be the spring. He was so thirsty that he dipped his hands into the slime, quickly withdrawing it to find that a dozen fat leeches had attached themselves to his flesh. Horrified, the man plucked the parasites from his palm and ran from the spring.
His mouth was drier than it had ever been. The man walked for miles and miles. He did not stop to eat or to sleep. Eventually, he came to the ocean. The waves slapped against the shore, and the man was overjoyed. It was more water than he'd seen in his entire life. He ran out toward the water, shouting jubilantly as he went. But by the time that the man was up to his neck in water, he realized that he was not thirsty at all. In fact, he was rather terrified to be in such deep water, having never been properly trained to swim. Just as the thought registered in the man's head, the waves swelled, and the water swallowed him up.
THE END

Tongue depressor

Stop spending all your time
depressing and impressing
and just press up against me
press me up against a wall
or a rock or a hard place

The Will

When I am dead, my dearest,
fill a Dixie cup with wine for me.
Don't volunteer to hire the priest,
some stranger to recite pretty lies in my honor.
Don't go to the funeral at all.
Pull the petals off the roses
you bought to comfort my family,
put those petals in a silk bag,
save them,
use them to seduce a misty-eyed brunette
in a little black dress.
Bake your feelings into a cake,
not one from a box;
your feelings require real butter and real chocolate,
not powder and just add water.
Eat it by yourself, all in one sitting.
Eat it with your hands. Don't use a plate.
Your feelings are too messy for forks and knives and napkins.
Stay home and write bad poetry.
Buy a typewriter,
tell yourself you'll use it
to write one haiku per day,
place it on your desk,
let it gather dust,
let it take up space you could use
for something more productive
in memory of me.


Undearest/Dearest

You didn't give me nothing.
You gave me a character,
you gave me a story to tell,
which means more to me
than any love
you could've shown me.

The Happily Ever After

I could hear her from the hallway; I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. I knocked, but she ignored me. I knocked again, louder.
"Mag? I'm here. Are you ok?"
No answer. I knocked more frantically.
"Mag? Are you okay? Answer me!"
Nothing.
"Mag, I'm coming in."
The doorknob didn't turn. As I struggled with the doorknob, her hysterical sounds grew louder.
I began to sweat. Something was not right. Mag's mood swings and hysterical displays of emotion had become routine, but something was not right. This wasn't her usual histrionic routine. She'd locked the door, something she would usually never do. She'd never want to keep people out, never want to risk losing her audience, never want to keep people from giving her the attention she needed. Usually Mag's suicide attempts were carried out with the door slightly cracked—not totally open, so that it didn't seem staged, but never, ever locked. She needed to be sure that a passerby could get to her in time to make her puke up the pills, bandage her up, drag her to the hospital. But, no, the door wasn't budging. This was different, all wrong.
What could I do? She wasn't opening the door. She wasn't acknowledging my banging and screaming her name. Could she hear me? Could she not understand that I'd shown up to rescue her, as the script seemed to go?
"Mag. Mag. Mag. What are you doing, baby? I can't get in. I can't get to you. Open up! How can I be your knight in shining armor if I can't get in? Mag, is this a joke? Are you fucking with me, Mag?"
She was quiet. Complete silence, no more crying or laughing, whichever it was. My hands began to shake.
"Fuck, Mag. What can I do, baby? I'm too small. I can't break down the door. I'm not a real fucking knight, Mag! I don't have a fucking sword or armor or any sort of goddamn training for this. I need you to open the door, baby."
She didn't.
I don't know how long I was screaming before two guys from down the hall whose names I'd never bothered to learn came and pulled me away. The taller one grabbed me and began asking me questions while the other worked on the door.
"What's going on?"
"I dunno. I dunno. She's in there, and she locked the door. She doesn't lock the door when she does this. It's a game. Today it's not a game."
"What's a game? Try to calm down for me, okay?"
"Mag. Mag's life. She does this sometimes, but not like this."
"You think she's trying to kill herself?"
"I dunno. I dunno. Something's wrong."
"Should I go get someone? What do you want to do?"
"I want to break down the fucking door."
So, the three of us kicked and pounded and threw our weight against the door until the hinges gave, but Mag was gone by then. Gone, gone, gone.
Her body was all the wrong colors. White and blue, some violet. She'd put red lipstick on, but most of it had smeared off. She wore a white dress, combat boots, white gloves. It was all wrong.
I went to her dresser and took her tiara from the top of her jewelry box. I smoothed down Mag's hair and placed the tiara on her head before kissing her cold mouth.
"Goodnight, my princess."


Tiaras

Mag once told me that stories about two girls never have happy endings. I'd never thought about it. I wanted to argue, but I couldn't make a case.
"What about us, Mag?" I finally asked, "Aren't we happy?"
She didn't even take time to consider, just rolled her eyes. "It's not the same."
Realizing she'd hurt my feelings, Mag ruffled my hair and gave me a dismissive smile.
This took place during her tiara phase. One of her little protests against normality, against heteronormativity, against patriarchy, against the mundane and socially acceptable. Mag backed up her tiara phase with this reasoning: "How often does an out bull dyke get to wear a tiara? When I was five, my daddy called me his princess. I'm not giving that up just 'cause I've grown up, and it turns out I'm gay."
"I don't know, Mag," I ventured. "I don't think straight people get to wear crowns much, either."
Pretending she hadn't heard me, she continued her monologue: "What? Just 'cause I'm into women, they take away my crown and my happily ever after gets revoked? It's bullshit. I'm a motherfucking princess, and I'm gonna wear this tiara."

Keep it simple, stupid.


"And I will die a voodoo chile."

People offen ask me, Grampa Oogey Boogey, how is it dat you's a grampa, and you ain't got no kids? And I tell 'em true, I got no kids cuz, I fell in love wit a woman wit a tilted uterus. Dat's what dem doctors tell us. It waddn't dat dere waddn't enough love between us. We got plenty a dat. Plenty a love. Lovin' an' lovin' every mornin' an' every night. But da babies just falled right outta her. I figure dat whoever job it was ta be designin' mah cher spent so much time makin' her outsides lookin' fine, dat dey run outta time on her insides an' done a sloppy job. When mah cher lost chile numba fo', she got to be real sad, cryin' an' cryin' everyday. One day, she cryin' an' I pick her up in my arms, an' I say, "Mah cher, it's gon' be alright, it's gon' be just fine, cuz we already got babies of our own. All dem voodoo chill'en out dere, dem's our babies. All dem li'l chill'en who believe in magic, dat's our chile." And she stopped her cryin', and she smiled at me, and she said, "Honey, I do believe dat's some load a bullshit." She lef' me not long afta dat, moved to Florida an' took up wit one a dem smooth-skinned Hispanics. Not a day goes by dat I ain't missin' mah cher. She was wrong about dem voodoo chill'en, no—dem's mah babies and dem always gon' be mah babies an' I love 'em all just like dey was mah own blood. Dat's what voodoo does. Dat magic gets up in your blood, and you's chained to all dem other voodoo chill'ens like dey was yo' own. And, well, I'm an ol' man now. Ol' Grampa Oogey Boogey, and I still got dat magic in my blood dat every voodoo chile got. I'm still chained, and I'll stay chained til dey put me in da ground.

20 September 2012

Marie Antoinette Chik-Fil-A Cow

I doodled this when I was bored during a meeting in celebration of Chik-Fil-A stopping anti-gay donations. It's a Marie Antoinette Chik-Fil-A cow saying, "Let them eat chikin!" :)
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16 September 2012

The Queer Fury and The Bicurious Wonder!

My superheroes, The Queer Fury and The Bicurious Wonder (drawn on a sticky note when we weren't busy at work)


lgbtq gay superheroes lesbian superhero queer super powers rainbow

05 September 2012

For Rico, Jack's Last Request

When I am dead, my dearest Rico, please do not attend the funeral.
Please, do not squeeze yourself into that black dress on my account.
Do not spend days agonizing over which wig to wear—the black,
pinstraight bob says mourning but the blonde Goldie Hawn looks so
good on. Please, my darling Rico, don't plaster over your eye brows
and paint new ones on your glittering brow bones. Don't go with the
gold eye shadow. Don't wear that same red lipstick that you wore the
last time that we kissed. Oh, god, Rico, and please, whatever you do,
do not make a speech. Do not mingle with my family and friends at the
memorial, and then halfway through the service, don't stand up and blurt
out some bullshit about how you were the true love of my life. Do not get
into a catfight with my wife over my casket. Do not get into a who-can-sob-
louder-and-is-therefore-more-emotionally-distressed-by-this-event-and-
therefore-loved-me-more match with my mother. Remember, Rico, you are
a lady. My lady. Do not introduce yourself to my boss as, "Coco, a very
close friend of Jack's," emphasis on the close. My darling, Rico, whatever
you do, do not have one of your episodes upon seeing my in my coffin.
Do not grab my lifeless body by the lapels and sob about how I was taken
from you too soon. Do not get on your knees in that cocktail dress. Do not
rip off your matching vintage hat—the one with the little netted veil—and
throw it across the room before balling up your fists and beating the ground
hysterically and shouting, "Whywhywhy!" Please, Rico, if you ever loved
me at all, then when I am dead, my dearest, please stay at home. Do not
change out of the silk bathrobe I bought you in Barcelona. Do not do your
makeup. Do not do your hair. Do not leave the house. Order in from Harry's.
Buy yourself two desserts. (Don't pretend you're worried about getting fat;
you always eat mine, anyway.) Drink that champagne we've been saving.
Drink it right out of the bottle. Put on Funny Girl. Watch it three times and
recite all of the words. (I won't be there to let your know how annoying
it is when you do that.) Don your fur-lined slippers in my honor. Cry if you
must, but only if you must. Take comfort in knowing that I was naked in your
arms, and everything else that I ever did was just drag, part of a persona. Get
angry that the love of your life was so artificial, if you must. Call for more
champagne. Watch Funny Girl again. Fall asleep. Wake up. Take two
aspirin with a glass of water. Pull the covers over your head. Close your
eyes. Start to feel better.

04 September 2012

Fast Learner

I think that part of the problem must be that I immediately understood in preschool when the teachers said that the golden rule was to treat others as you would like to be treated, while most people I’ve encountered thus far are still trying to make sense of that one.

28 July 2012

Sold another one

Apparently "God Save the Queen" didn't need as much editing as I thought because I just sold it. :)

Yellow flowers

"I could learn photography. That could be something to want. I could photograph children. I could have my own children. I would give them yellow roses. And if they got too loud, I would just put them some place quiet. Put them in the oven. And I would kiss them every day, and tell them you don't have to be anybody, because I would know that being somebody doesn't make you anybody anyway." —Gia Marie Carangi

Today my friend Andy and I were sad, so I bought some yellow flowers for us. We walked around and gave them to people who looked like they needed flowers, and we left one for an old friend. It was her birthday recently. Hopefully she'll know that the flower was from us, that we haven't forgotten about her, and that we miss knowing her.  


22 July 2012

Thoughts on Jesus Christ Superstar

So, I saw Jesus Christ Superstar for the first time today. One of my good friends was in the ensemble/played one of the guards who flogged Jesus. He was so good in it! I'm so proud of him. In general, the play was amazing! King Herod was played by a faux drag queen who looked like Ursula from The Little Mermaid. The costumes were fantastic. Caiaphas had this awesome disco mobster Jew look. Some members of the ensemble (three really beautiful black women) were dressed in these awesome white Southern belle church-goer dresses with white sun hats and fans. Also, I had no idea that Jesus Christ Superstar is such a homoerotic play! Judas is just this sexually questioning homophobe who can’t handle that he’s in love with a dude…a dude who also happens to be the messiah. God, Judas, stop getting people crucified and accept that you like men. 

17 July 2012

Magdolene

In all fairness, she did once tell me that she was insane,
but not long after she said, "But I know that I'm mad,
and truly mad people never know they're mad,
so, really, I must be okay." I told her I was not sure
that was the way it worked. I watched her mouth
force itself into a half smile, though it came out
more like a half frown. I could not help but kiss her.

14 July 2012

06 July 2012

The Alphamale (or the ABC's of why I'm leaving you for a woman)



A is for asking for anal and the “accidental” slip into the wrong slot when the answer was still NO.
B is for beer pong and your Budweiser breath on my ear begging me to go bed with you, a charming “you’re beautiful,” and suave belch.
C is for cheating when we played checkers, cheating when we played chess, and cheating when you said it was love.
D is for the dozen drunk dials I awoke to when you dared to slur, “Are you suuuure you’re disease-free?”
E is for every time I envied the eternally true iloveyous of lovers lost in each other’s eyes when my own ears were only ever graced by echoes of my malcontent emotion.
F is for my favorite feud: who got too friendly with whose friends first and all the other fights over who fucked who over most; it got far too physical for me pretty fucking fast.
G is for your grotesque grease-stain glow because you think you look like a rockstar when you don’t bathe, but really you have all the glamour of the gray gravy goo my granny saves in a jar in her fridge.
H is for your hard-boiled heart and my hunger to be held by a human, maybe one made of some humble heat instead of your unholy hands at my haunches.
I is for the imperfect self-image I developed ever since you inquired if I’d ever considered implants.
J is for being jarred by your jealousy of the jocks at the gym who I’d never even talk to.
K is for keeping secret your kamikaze-style of kissing because I could never find a kind way to say that a shish-kabob could show you up in a kissing contest.
L is for the look on your lying lips when “I love you” leaked out for the first time.
M is for my mother’s well-meant advice to look for a “more well-mannered man (maybe one with money or at least morals)."
N is for never finding it necessary to nix your unruly neck-beard, no matter how many times I let you know it nauseates me.
O is for the outrageous outnumbering of your orgasms to my zer-Oh!
P is for the puke on my new purse, pulling off your piss-soaked pants before I put you into bed, and the putrid lack of apology lingering in the air the morning after.
Q is for your not-quite clever quips and the quiet that quickly follows in order to quell the pique to my pride when you speak.
R is for my resentment towards the way you never make my phone ra-ra-ringgg when you promise, “Really, I’ll call you right after work.”
S is for saying, “Let’s see a movie at seven,” stealing sixteen dollars from my wallet, and not being able to spare seven stolen bucks for my ticket.
T is for is for your Tic-Tacked tongue, the tartar-crusted teeth you never brush, how your tongue tortured my mouth like the rusty tool used to poke at a dying fire.
U is for my unfortunately under-touched undercarriage and your unappreciative utterances once you’ve used me to get off.
V is for my vain attempt to fill the void in my life with your volatility.
W is for when I washed your whites and found an out-of-place pair of women’s underwear, which you swore were mine.
X is for the X-rated stories of your exes that you are so excited to recite to me, despite my vexed protests.
Y is for your yo-yo yearning and spurning of your loved ones.
Z is for your zealous Zoloft-popping so that you no longer have to feel anything human and can go on living like the alpha males of the zoo.

The Alpha Male pt. 2


G for your grotesque grease-stain glow because you think you look like a rockstar when you don’t bathe.
E for your Elway-esque passes at my friends, expressing your ugly urges to score in their end zones.
T for taking out that trashy waitress from T.G.I. Friday’s when I was I was out of town.

O for the outrageous outnumbering of your orgasms to my zer-Oh!
U for my unfortunately under-touched undercarriage, unless you’ve got too much motor oil in your system.
T for your Tic-Tacked tongue and how it tortured my mouth like a rusty tool poking at a dying fire.

Tomorrow


I will, I will climb up that hill,
I’ll take all my pills,
And start remembering Mommy’s birthday in September November;
I’ll start saving all my cash,
And I swear I won’t have anything to do with hash ever again,
I’ll do just what Daddy said
And stay off that pole and out of that strange man’s bed;
I swear, I’ll think twice before I go home with a guy promising to show me a good time,
Because they never are as rich as they pretend to be,
It’s all a dumb pitch for girls like me;

I will, I will start running again,
I’ll stop drinking all of the gin,
And start to fix that gaping hole that has somehow worn into my soul sole;
I’ll never smoke another cigarette,
And I swear I won’t shoot up and steal a Corvette ever again, 
I’ll do just what they told me to do
And go back to school and stop crying to you;
I swear, I’ll think twice before lifting a grand of merchandise from Macy’s,
Because it’s never worth the thrill,
It’s not worth time in the pen or worth the bill;

I will, I will,
I promise, okay?
Maybe by May I’ll have enough money to move someplace faraway
Then I can sit back and watch the flowers bloom,
But for today I’ll start with cleaning my room.

Left Shoe


Old Ken Cole was a weary old soul,
And a weary mold sole was he;
He spent his life on a shelf dark as night
And he called for some company.
Every meddler finds a fine match,
Every meddler except for me;
Oh there’s none so rare as can compare
With lonely Ken Cole but me.

The Alpha Male pt. 3


A bit crass, Darling.
Every fucking grotesque harlot?
Initial jealousy—kamikaze-love
me now, or please quietly retreat.
Sex, thoughts: unsatisfying.
Volatility won’t excuse your Zoloft.

I would come back for you and only you.


After the shards scarred me
Mom and Dad left me for dead
Grinning guards barred my bedspread
They said I’d never be free
But in my cage I learned to sing
Songs of hope scratched on my cot
I built myself a pair of wings
Out of lullabies and coins and rot
In every song I sung your face
In every song I sung your taste
In every song I sung your flesh           
In every song I sung your breath

Kenneth Cole


Tucked away in a cardboard box
coffin beneath moth-eaten
time-beaten materials of every variety,
with his owner-innards
so easily extracted, gizzards gone,
left him to loner-fate
moaning late into the night,
he was nothing
but abandoned shell, embalmed
leather corpse tethered by an old
lace to the dusty space
in the bottom shelf of Hell.
With a hole in his soul, he was the world’s
most stepped-on street peddler,
sweet old business meddler,
shoved into a nursing home by loved ones
who shamed his name and claimed
to have his best interests in mind.
Amongst a million cold, mold-choked things,
spider strings, rusty rings, ex-kings,
he couldn’t help but allow his dry tongue
to continue to eek meek requests for human
touch until the overwhelming bleak black
of moth mouths swallowed the sorry sucker
whole.

Holding your breath


You dove right in
to what you didn’t know
While holding your breath for me
And I know what I am
to you Some exotic fruit
whose juice bit your tongue 
Some rare bird
whose song plagued your skull
Some mermaid whose mirage
burned itself to the backs
of your eyelids when
you lost yourself at sea
You would call me
unconventionally beautiful
But I would laugh in your face

Self-Portrait in 75 Words or Less


I could never write about my life;
The characters aren’t developed.
My father works on computers
And lives in another city
With his replacement family.
My mother has a big heart
And an addictive personality.
My sisters are cheerleaders
Charged with theft
And drinking under age.
I'm a quiet idontknowwhat
with a passion for oppression.
My instructor says it's best
to edit yourself out.

To My Dearest Red Dress,


I hope that when you hug her wine-bottle body you never look cheap.
I hope that her Wonderbra and refusal to wear panties never make you uncomfortable.
I hope that when she pulls you down
a bit to expose her breasts to the bartender, you don’t
take it personally.
I hope that before she whines, “Time to go,” she doesn’t spill half of her
drink on your soft fabric.
I hope that once you’ve been clumsily tossed into the darkest
corner of her closet, she doesn’t forget about you.
I hope that she doesn’t pick up a new dress that looks exactly like you
but in black next week.
I hope that her hand-me-down love is worth it.

Always,
Your Mannequin 

The wing-maker, the partridge, and the boy who did not quite belong to the sky


Branded and banished, I am sorry to report that I am not entirely sure
what the caged bird has to sing about.
Such a saltwater and starry-eyed sweetheart,
my son now sleeps with the sand dollars.
My child would never live to fly higher than I,
on waxy wings or otherwise, nor would my sister’s son.
My boy’s ambition swelled so big I was bitter;
I bit off and crammed down his throat more than he could swallow.
Perhaps young chaps with wings strapped to their backs
should keep in mind the space between the sky and the sea,
as well as the space between their turned backs and me.
What good is ingenuity when his bed is a ledge lined with twigs
or the lowest branch of the pear tree?
For the burden of the bull bucking between my city’s shoulder blades,
I do not feel ashamed.
For the death of the little saw-maker and my sand-buried baby,
I feel no remorse.
For the inevitable downward spiral of my invention,
I fall on my sword.
What good is ingenuity from behind the brass bars of this cage?

To tell the truth

I love you
was the easiest
lie I ever told
I'm so happy
to see you again
was the hardest

Jellybean Candycane


I miss Miss Blacksmeared and Technicolored
I miss little Wide-Eyed Thingnapper
I miss the Homoerotic Homes that made me panic
over spilled bottles down betraying throats
I miss the Whore On The Hill Town Legend that made me
proud and hateful
I miss Mister LoveYouForWhoYouUsedToBe
I miss not being torn
through not a goddamn piece
of meat raw on
a porcelain plate
I miss being tasted carefully
and gracefully but mostly
gratefully
I miss not being left out
over night to draw flies
not being picked over
or forgotten like last
week’s suppertime special
I miss the reputation
and the thrills
but mostly
the Respect