Monday, November 26, 2012


My eyes hang heavy.
I think once of Mishima,
and I press my tongue
against the roof of my mouth.
I can't stop yawning,
but the world I have to live in
is a morning world,
running away from the night,
dragging me to wakefulness.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

You Think It Is But It Isn't

It isn't that hard.
You think it is, but it isn't.
The unscalable wall
is a hologram;
you can step right through.
It's only until the first time you touch
that it appears solid
(solid to keep you from freedom,
solid to protect you from yourself).

Monday, November 19, 2012


The closest you can come to me
is just as close as I can come,
as close as tiny particles
can come to other particles,
as close as anything can be
to anything, which is to say:
infinitesimally close
but never close enough to touch.

Monday, November 12, 2012


There's this boy who works at Wendy's down the street,
and he's really something else.
I can't tell how old he is
because he's like seven feet tall
and incredibly skinny
and he has the face of an unusually naive 15-year-old.
He's the most polite person I've ever interacted with,
and it doesn't even make me feel flustered
that he calls me "ma'am".
It sounds respectful but at the same time
like we could be friends.
He always has a smile in his voice
--on his face, too, but his voice permeates farther into me--
that makes me think, wow, am I
supposed to be happy, too? Because I
think I might just be happy now,
like it's an instantaneously communicable
He's the best part about lunch,
and I think maybe even if I didn't like the chili,
I would go to Wendy's anyway.
I wanna smile at him because
somebody should smile at him, because
everybody should smile at him, because
he's beautiful.

Thursday, November 08, 2012

Reading Cities' Names

Reading cities' names,
I just got punched in the gut.
All of these people,
all of these streets and houses:
I don't know any of them.

Wednesday, November 07, 2012

Sonnet LXXXIV: Esteem

It's for the thousandth sword I wait,
every breath anticipation;
it's for that glance of scornful hate,
changing to appreciation,
for my violent collision
with the man possessed by vision,
for him to find me, blind and lame,
and give to me a new-made name.
All the weaknesses he wrestles
I wait to bolster with my sword,
like water waiting to be poured
into smaller, finer vessels.
For words, for laws to sleep beneath--
I'm waiting for a single sheath.


Isn't it strange
that what happened to me
is exactly like what happened to you?

You warned me,
and I came here anyway,
reckless, because I did not value my life,
just as you did not value your life--

I could see your shame in your forehead,
your uncertainty in your hands,
and I won't be like you,

but I like you.

I didn't know how easy it is to lose a person.
I've never had the opportunity before

but I am so delighted to learn even this,

and that's what I wanted to tell you.
Read it, please,
in the fingerprints I left on your face.


Anteros answered my prayer,
and the curse is a deep one:
we share it like a huge piece
of hideous, too-rich cake,
eating from it long after
it begins to sicken us--
this, the last thing we will share.

São Paulo Doll

When I was six, my favorite stuffed anim
al was named after a cartoon character, 
but I lied and told everyone he had a di
fferent name.
              I used to think that the c
anned recording of rain sounds that puts
 me to sleep was ugly because it is muff
led and repetitive and doesn't quite sou
nd like real rain. I used to think that 
the little doll I bought in São Paulo sh
ouldn't be displayed because it was made
 for tourists. I used to be ashamed of m
y taste in music and movies and games, a
s though the fact that these things are 
cheap, simple, and mass-produced makes t
hem worthless.

But now I know that these things are wonderful,
worth just exactly as much
as the weight of my love for them.
If I like to look at something,
it's beautiful.
If I want it,
it's valuable.
What's most real
is the thing I'm holding in my hand.

I can care for anything that pleases me

for any reason that seems acceptable
in my own eyes.

I wanted to write a poem

I wanted to write a poem
that would be uplifting and encourage people,
show you that I really am happy sometimes--
increasingly often, actually.
I think maybe I even have real hope
some days,
and I wanted to tell you.

But then my sister texted to tell me about her new baby
and I realized my husband wants to go dancing
--which I don't really like--
and my iPod started playing this song that reminds me of something sad
and when I got home the house was messy
and all my pants are too small.
I guess it's sad that that's all it takes to conquer me

but fuck it,
I don't have to fight unless I want to
There's nothing I have to do
that I actually have to do.
So I will lie with my face in the carpet
and later, I will feel better.