Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Coming Home

When I carried my duffel bag up to
My old room,
leather backpack slung over my right shoulder
Macbook in hand,
I found a small disposable camera
Just sitting there,
In a pile of old magazines.
I picked it up, full roll of film.
Without thinking, I snapped my first picture.
My pillows, with their old-lady print
That didn't match my quilt,
The one my grandmother made,
equally dowdy,
but less colorful.
I turned.
The next photo was the miniature Tibetan Prayer Flags
hung across my windows in lieu of curtains.
They came free in the mail one day
And no one can see my room anyhow.
Next, my dresser, covered in debris.
Old, cheap, childish imitations of make-up,
Costume jewelry,
Acne medication,
My softball mitt,
A porcelain doll.
My mirror, full-length,
Propped against the wall.
Old concert tickets,
Autographs from bands
I no longer listen to.
My door, with its faux-vintage travel stickers.
My bathroom mirror,
Open and Closed.
The inside of my closet.
My cowboy boots.
My duffel, with it's old-lady print.
That does not match my pillows
Or my quilt.
Sitting on the foot of my bed,
Waiting to be unopened, unpacked.
I leave it for the morning
And use up the rest of the film.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

The First Real Love Poem I Wrote In Years

Soft songs
soft as cigarette smoke in springtime air or
the brush of an eyelash
against your lover's cheek when you get this
And all you want to do is stay.
In this moment,
in his arms,
in that pure, clean note,
and that's all you'll ever need.
Forever and ever.

Don't you dare let go.
She said.
Hand clasping hand, gentle brush of a thumb up
her skinny wrist.
He smiled.
I won't.

Kafka wrote a love letter.
He asked, pleaded, his beloved
to please write him only once a week.
Not, you see, because he didn't want to hear from her.
Quite the contrary.
In Truth, my darling,
he couldn't bear to hear from her every day.
He was overwhelmed by his love for her,
mad with passion.
I worry that is what I am becoming.
I don't smoke, I won't drink,
and yet
I'm an addict.
I need your voice, your face.
Need to hear you wax poetical on
sentiments of
I so desperately need to believe.

Something about you makes me think
you could be it.
My lucky break.
She said.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Rutina Diaria

Gets out of bed to turn off the alarm clock. Hovers briefly in front of the computer before leaving for the shower. Stands naked in front of wardrobe and thinks about how she needs to put in a few more miles because her thighs are too fat. Get dressed. Eat yogurt. Brush teeth. Foundation, concealer, powder, shadow, liner, mascara, perfume, lip gloss. Go to class and focus on the text book. El libro de texto. Eat lunch at the counter without making eye contact with anyone else in the cafeteria.

Talk about the Holocaust in afternoon class. Watch last night's TV shows on Hulu while nibbling on her 24 daily almonds (exactly one ounce for protein and essential fats). Homework in front of the fireplace listening to Cream on headphones that only play through the right ear. Make a mental note to buy new ones. Forget. Dinner with friends. More homework. Facebook while staying offline. Bed with a well-loved copy of The Authoritative Calvin and Hobbes. Smile. Sleep.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010


"You sure you're cool with this?"


"I mean..."

"I said I'm fine."

"I know but-"

"Do you want to call him and cancel?"

"Well no."

"Well there you go."

"Alright, if you say so..."

"I do say so."


"Can we just talk about something else?"

"I really like this song?"

"Good. Me too."

"Who is it?"

"...The Beatles?"

"Oh. Really?"



"I thought you were into music?"

"I am. I just... didn't recognize the song."

"But... it's... nevermind."

"Is this really bad? I mean, I should know this..."

"Well yeah. You should."

"Are you sure you're Ok?"

"Jesus Christ on a rubber crutch will you stop asking me that?"

"Ok! Ok! I just... I mean..."

"He hates this song."




"You look good."


"Have fun tonight."

"Yeah... I will."

Sunday, January 24, 2010


It was the drumming.
That constant tap
Tap tap tap
He would do on anything.
And I do mean anything.
Guitarist fingers
With Kurt Cobain Callouses
So deep it hurt to hold his hand.
And that humming.
Or whistling.
Or anything.
His very existence had a tonality
A meter and rhythm
That I was never sure if I matched.
In fact
I'm pretty sure I didn't.
No one really did.
But it didn't really matter
I suppose.
Cause no one could quite match mine.
I wasn't made of music,
But he couldn't understand
How I could sit.
So still.
And read from
"that goddamn textbook,
you know I'm
more interesting than anything
that happened way-the-fuck back
I told him about the decadence of Roman Emperors.
Rock Stars before there was Rock.
And he gave me a grin.
One that was just a little
Too goofy for a super-duper-star.
Next week he had a new song.
I was no muse,
It was fun to pretend.

Thursday, January 14, 2010


Misogyny is a funny thing, when you think about it.
I mean, it's not funny in a Ha Ha sort of way, of course.
It's just...
How many guys see one of their female friends
(See! They aren't misogynists! They have women who are Just Friends!)
Angry and crying and instinctively think
"That Time Of The Month."
How many guys always want to drive because deep down
Deep deep deep deep down
They honestly assume, without cause
That they are better drivers than their woman passengers.
How many guys associate 'feminist'
With hairy-legged angry lesbian with blue hair and an eyebrow piercing?
How many guys assume they need to help
With everything
And I do mean everything
Because it's 'chivalrous.'
Clearly, nothing gets those panties dropping
Like calling a chick incompetent.
If a guy doesn't say 'twat'
But assumes without question every girl wants to have a happily-ever-after marriage
He's still an asshole.
Maybe a bigger one.
Cause 'cunt' 'bitch' 'twat' 'ho'
They're just words.
And words have no real power
Said the writer.
But ideas.
Ideas are where the poison hides.
Latent, shadowed thoughts,
Assumed superiority
These are the men who really make
A feminist's skin crawl.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Don't You Dare

Hey there you,
yes you.
You there little girl -
Why won't you look at me?
Why won't you answer?
You know I'm talking to you,
So listen up.
Wipe those stupid tears away right now.
Right Now.
What is wrong with you?
What reason do you have to cry?
Is this about him?
Oh honey, oh child,
This better not be about him.
Do you think he's crying about you right now?
Do you?
That's what I thought.
So why are you crying over him?
Remember in kindergarten?
It wasn't all that long ago.
They told you the Golden Rule:
Treat Others As You Want To Be Treated.
Well, he's not treating you with sympathy,
compassion, respect, understanding,
So why are you?
Now wash your face,
And brush your hair,
And take that damn black hoodie off -
For crying out loud, is that really the kind of girl you are?
The kind that cries over boys
When they don't cry over her?
You're welcome.
Now don't you dare apologize.