Wednesday, October 20, 2010

On Crying

It's those moments:

bare ass planted on cold porcelain thighs not tense mind drifting to rivers and niagara falls and
bubble gum bubble so big jaw sore you take one more breath and
caught glance across the room while that girl talks about the reading like a conspiracy of metaphors and it's funny and
stomach muscles tight and butt-cheeks doing the opposite of birth but then the car hits a curb you roll down the windows and
printer finally making smooth sounds the paper goes in and
under-water-longest contest and a forest fire in your tonsils, heading up and
glitter on the table forgot the lid and she speaks with her hands gestures, makes contact and

moments before explosion
before expelling

you need to cry, you walk all day in a haze of it- of all the almosts
anything can tip you over,
paper house on a gusty cliff
perhaps it'll be the tv show fight with the actors with too much makeup
or the whiskey ginger laughter that lasts too long till eyes tear anyway
or the self professed shaman from LA complimenting your purple aura
or the letter your mom sent with that yellow flower paper
or pictures of the oil spill or san quentin or the shelter or your text message about peter pan

any of these, even worse,
things like a brown feather or a rusty bike part
or a deep wrinkle

things I wont admit to

My eyeballs a red button
waiting to be pressed

let it out let it out let it out

and when you can't
like that orgasm
you spend hours searching for
post bike home drunk through the fog
and turn on your hitachi
pray your walls are thicker, just tonight
and buzz for 30 minutes before
catching head-droop and thinking pathetic

this stumbling towards but never finding
black underwear midnight contacts off
hand groping

I want this
I need this

all these almosts.
I carry almosts in my backpack and try to spin them into conversations
as though there is no statue of limitations for that which can be

in emergencies
I call you buy ben and jerry's chocolate chip cookie dough
wear grey sweatpants consume guilt and
all those movies that are like diuretics

we lean shoulders when we finally burst
I lick my tears they taste like relief

Monday, October 4, 2010


Photo is a portrait of Noemi Castro, who took part in my Secret Pen Pal Project- Results & more info coming soon!

I hand bind books about glitter
and talk fancy about the super powers of parsely.
I make to do lists
about the to do lists
I should make
and daydream about being
a poet rockstar.

Can you imagine PTV?
Poetry Television with a hot nerd babe host
who quotes lyrics and the romantics
in one sweet breath?

We would count the top ten of the week.
Voters could vote via cellphones--

the tech-savvy age of poetry.

Everyone will gossip about the poets
they want to bang the most
and the poets will be followed by paparazzi.
Poet x drinks 7 cups of coffee!
Poet z had sex with 3 people!
Poet r never left her house this week!

Quotes from the readings will be printed on posters
hawked so far and wide that men with faux leather jackets
will sell black-market versions on Canal Street.

Poems will be played over the speakers at starbucks.
People will buy tickets to poets weeks in advance.

Poets get paid while living.
Nobody ever lacks for the right words to say.