Beauty doesn’t owe me anything. It shimmers, it fades, I wade, it evades, it shows some leg, it whispers touch me. It charges me the victim, cuffs me, on the stand I do not plead because this is familiar land and I’ve begun to learn my rights and I attempt to handle it – thusly. A recall of compacted, condensed and sealed, censored and suppressed memory; I think I left it underground. I dig, I dig, I dig, I pray my nails don’t dirty. I check my phone. I check my phone again. I pray my hands stay clean. Every night before I fall asleep the last thoughts that cloud my mind are new creative ways to lure you because I know if I stay silent, you who’ve restrained the parts that could be used to need me would continue with your life not stopping to watch me mourn the deer that I mowed down at midnight pulling out the station on the road back to the interstate. The deer, my bloodied forehead, and I start the poem on fast food napkins from the glove compartment; you’d be so enthralled to hear. Us three, plus the ditch at roadside imagining the shock and care, you asking us what happened. I’ll raise my hand and without being called, I’ll say I was distracted. Wipe the blood to cut down competition, vie for your attention. Pray - that what I surface with won’t surface on my throat.


As Seen in Eugene Lang 11.5 Literary Journal 2015 (print)





I Thought You Said You Were A Masochist

You can stop doing dishes with handsoap

making eggs like you know how to eat them.

I can hear you. In the other room.

You never really woke up this morning.


Spinning riverbeds of incense smoke

like they could teach you how

and why.

Testing tears to tease out misery,

All things to do for fun.



‘How do the Japanese get off 

In lieu of all their guns?’

Like all things left alone too long

they start to mold

go out

and then they’re done.


You say, ‘cut the fucking theatrics.’


You the winner.

You immaculate.

Up wake, making yourself mourn.






After Denis Johnson's "Passengers"

The world will burst like a condom in the womb,

the dark will turn to metal and the metal to a name,

but there will always be a bastard riding a bicycle

through Chinatown, strewn with broken glass

among ancient women castigating children in Chinese,

always a slow dialect of rain

whispering of drifting and leaving to the air,

always these subtle beckonings of light from the sky

at the union of “this clarity” and “this storm”

and a woman’s turning – her dangerous, dip dyed flight of hair

like a child scribbling, in an emery,

jagged-toothed, vulnerable to incredible harm

coloring my life, like I will never die.


As seen in Fox Cry Review 2015 (print)




   The Patron Saint of Pussy


her sister told her

her tits would sag

if she didn't wear bras

when she was



she bought bras for training

but she was born naked

seeking comfort in a fort

of little girls undressing 

in the mirrors of her eyes

her sighs 

of sexual frustration

drugs that crave efficient highs

until everything 

she eats 

tastes like



she is making herself wet


her headspace is worthy of light obsession

and the end of the day feels like 

horny chickens


on a month full of sundays

while she screams

at girls with bitchy mouths

at ‘give me something quick’

at painful

see she


right through her pleasures

she is starving all the time







the guy across the street outside my window just picked his nose then stepped out of the street, over the curb and to the pole that marks the bus stop. he wiped the boogers on his jeans and then scratched his ass in one motion while i stared at him in my underwear through sheer curtains & thought “that’s talent”.








eye contact

forgetting to apologize

inflicting pain

ingesting hymns,

of saccharine and cancer

letting them disagree

bad luck, poverty, sad songs

in sarcasm, as validation

tithing to my fellow man

in favor of eternal love

wet dreams of rape and violent murder



It's been a while.