you swept me out,
I made a home in the rafters.

It never
seemed like
a place to call home.

But spin
enough white
woolen blankets and

can look like Home.

You know,
it’s rather nice
up here. Because

up here,
I can see you
from afar, and much

clearly than
before. Up here,

doesn’t burn
the skin you made

so tender.
Up here, the only
webs that can ensnare

those I spin
myself. I feel a tug

at my
throat. It’s
Growing ever tighter,

still I’ll keep
spinning so that

I will
never be
tempted to crawl

down from
the rafters


JUST BREATHE // just breathe

We don’t
open the
around here.
Out there
is ocean
air – toxic
as the smog.
Fear it
breathe in
gas instead –
gasp – breathe –
gasp – breathe –
what if I
tear these
shutters down
what if
gasp –
breathe –
I breath
in ocean
air –
is it as
toxic as they
say because i
think it’s
drown in
ocean air

* * * * *

It rushes through the windows
in a twister –
it blows through my my lungs
like a sweet, perfect cigarette – but beautiful.
They always said
the air out there was toxic.
And I was so afraid of the wind
and the waves,
and breathing ocean air –
but it blows through,
clearing all this stale silence.
Sweet breath of life
rips through this house, tears down
everything – these walls,
these clogged-up halls – until there is nothing left but
beautiful, explosive, oxygen.
We are not in Kansas anymore:
we are living art-pop technicolor – finally.
we are resuscitated back to a life
we never knew we could have.
there is finally breath of life.
For we have kicked down the windows,
and we are never closing them again.
Finally… finally…
just breathe, right here, right now –
this is freedom.
This Is Gospel


on the longest day of the year

i lift my eyes
up towards invisible stars

and wonder
if stars are still real

or if stars
were ever real

or if some
storyteller told one

too many
tales to keep a hope

alive that
when the sun finally sets

night is
not all darkness.

i think
of how storytellers

are sort of
prophets but sort of liars

and how
constellations are

only made up stories
to make sense
of chaos

and if they
made up the lines

they could
make up the dots too.

i watch
the unwelcome moon

peek her
somber eyes through

the scorching
skies and i wonder

if she too
dreams of stars

but fears
that at the end of this

sunlit nightmare

she will
find herself alone

in the
infinite darkness.

but still
i try to remind myself

if icarus
had only waited

to spread
his tender wings

a little
while longer the sun

may have
fallen instead of him.


The Museum of Public Shame

is a strangely splendid bit of architecture,
covered in recycled newspaper shards.

The tour guide met me at the entrance
and gave me a badge that read “Just looking!”

We started with a modern piece:
The Jury, it was called. I saw a chorus

of mechanized bluebirds. They turned at me
immediately, and fixed their hollow eyes

upon my lips. They sang so loud I could hear
nothing but “SPEAK” “SPEAK” “SPEAK”

Don’t speak, mouthed my guide, slashing a finger
across his throat. We backed away… slowly…

He led me to a room with only Venuses
in various states of decay. Moth-eaten canvas

“No, moth-eaten skin,” he corrected. “Here,
take this,” and handed me a bee suit.

In the corner, I spotted Mona Lisa
in a bed with demons on her chest.

The tour guide chuckled and told me a secret.
He said she was counterfeit – the real one

was called Monica – the real one
was burned up in Rome, in Alexandria,

in Salem, in somewhere. He couldn’t quite
remember. He didn’t seem to care.

I felt my stomach churn as the stench of oil
paintings me made me wonder…

No one asked them if they wanted to hang
on walls, or if they wanted a sentence

in a history book (or several history books).
but don’t speakjust looking… As I left, I asked

how the building stands through time. He said
the frame is made of bones. “But don’t worry.

They aren’t human.”


The Speed of Light

Disappear with me into the amber grass
that chafes our backs. Last time we looked up
from here, the ice beneath us chiseled out tattoos.
We still have matching ones (at least I do).

Usually, I disappear alone into the weeds
and dream they are flowers. I feel the seasons
spinning around me, but I concentrate on stars
which twirl eternally in their Viennese waltz.

I know that some of them returned to dust
a million years ago. I know that right now,
some are gasping in a vacuum and choking
on dark matter. But I can’t tell from here.

I wonder what you’re thinking. If you long
to return to the sky like I do. If you even
remember all the constellations we made…
or if you care about them, anyway.

You aren’t looking at me, your eyes
are gazing into the depths of dark matter.
At last, I speak. “You see that star?
I think that’s the one we wished on.”

You shrug. “It’s probably
dead already,” you say,
and walk away.

poetry, Uncategorized


you start off predestined
to die. the gods
in your chromosomes
that you shall live
in this body
a certain number
of days and then return
to stardust.

do you know?
there’s something deep
within you
that fears
your judgement day
is coming… soon, you will

apart into a thousand
minute stars.
stars… which burn with fury
though they are
lifeless. stars,
like you,
are set in their days.

each day,
i try
to beat your gods,
to protect you
from dying
like trench soldiers…

by thousands…
by millions…
i hold fast
to your bodies

even as they rot…
you poison new cells
but you’re all
that i know.

i will hold on
as surely

as sun shines
(which is to say




What a thrill –
cried the cat,
his paws
swatting clouds.

His comrade
helped him –
compelled him –
to leap.

If a cat
is a masochist,
a flea
is no parasite.


pretty house

there’s a house on the hill
with gingerbread sides.
it’s got sugarcane windows
and rock-candy bricks.

see candy apple trees
with peppermint bark.
a lifesaver swing
hangs from a red vine.

children always say
“it’s such a pretty house.”
that was the house
where they wanted to play.

grown-ups always say
“it’s such a pretty house.”
on zillow, they estimate it
at 1.1 million.

the house has two stories
and a million more
it could tell –
if it liked talking.

cotton candy
cobwebs deck
the drafty halls.

a gingerbread man
sprawls out
on the sofa,
gobbling up red hots.

obsessively sweeps
powdered sugar
off sticky tiles.

like the house,
the inhabitants
aren’t much
for talking.

they’ve sealed
bedroom doors
with royal icing
over the years.

the chocolate floors
don’t give much
traction. but hey,
they look so sweet.

and even as the chocolate
is melting away,
if you stand on the lawn,
“it’s such a pretty house.”


When Tasked With Reconditioning,

the planner foolishly thought
the brain would be laid out
like the streets –
associations like interchanges –
traumas like stop signs – stop –
then proceed.

the skeptic foolishly believed
poltergeists are as fictional in mind
as in films…
Down haunted halls of the amygdala,
solid phantoms roam and dance and laugh
and kill.

the poet foolishly forced
every memory – every object –
into symbol
so that tree equals him equals
fear equals man equals self
equals pistol.

the addict foolishly strangled
the planner and the skeptic and the poet
so it could
rule the brain as a puppet rules a stage…
Perhaps one day, it could kill the ghosts
for good.