Friday, March 20, 2015

100 Bells

With thanks to Vievee Francis
My sister died. He raped me. They beat me. I fell
to the floor. I didn’t. I knew children,
their smallness. Her corpse. My fingernails.
The softness of my belly, how it could
double over. It was puckered, like children,
ugly when they cry. My sister died
and was revived. Her brain burst
into blood. Father was driving. He fell
asleep. They beat me. I didn’t flinch. I did.
It was the only dance I knew.
It was the kathak. My ankles sang
with 100 bells. The stranger
raped me on the fitted sheet.
I didn’t scream. I did not know
better. I knew better. I did not
live. My father said, I will go to jail
tonight because I will kill you. I said,
She died. It was the kathakali. Only men
were allowed to dance it. I threw
a chair at my mother. I ran from her.
The kitchen. The flyswatter was
a whip. The flyswatter was a flyswatter.
I was thrown into a fire ant bed. I wanted to be
a man. It was summer in Texas and dry.
I burned. It was a snake dance.
He said, Now I’ve seen a Muslim girl
naked. I held him to my chest. I held her
because I didn’t know it would be
the last time. I threw no
punches. I threw a glass box into a wall.
Somebody is always singing. Songs
were not allowed. Mother said,
Dance and the bells will sing with you.
I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I
locked the door. I did not
die. I shaved my head. Until the horns
I knew were there were visible.
Until the doorknob went silent.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

An exerpt from Beretta Bridge by Cory Page

"The river tells of a great lesson that we humans have forgotten.
We believe we are so in control of this world that we lose ourselves to that illusion, and are consumed by it. The river says that every life has its peaks and troughs. These waves push us on down a path that will take us far from where we started, and even farther from anywhere we think we should end.
And though we bob uncertainly in the rapids, we must take heart: though we know not where we are heading, we know that so long as we candraw breath, then we have cause enough to celebrate."

Friday, February 6, 2015


I went searching online for a poem that deeply moves me and 
Always has

and the only place I found it was on my own blog that came up #1 result on google.

And I saved myself in this case.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Still Here

To whoever lingers,

I'm still here, still living. Probably more than I have for most of my life.
I'm just out adventuring, learning, experiencing. But most of all finding nspiratin.

I may have some new things to share soon.

Much love to you all (or few).


Friday, July 26, 2013

Coming up

our father who art in a penthouse
sits in his 37th floor suite
and swivels to gaze down
at the city he made me in
he allows me to stand and
sollicit graffiti until
he needs the land I stand on
I in my darkened threshold
am pawing through my pockets
the receipts, the bus schedules
the matchbook phone numbers
the urgent napkin poems
all of which laundering has rendered
pulpy and strange
loose change and a key
ask me
go ahead, ask me if I care
I got the answer here
I wrote it down somewhere
I just gotta find it

somebody and their spraypaint got too close
somebody came on too heavy
now look at me made ugly
by the drooling letters
I was better off alone
ain't that the way it is
they don't know the first thing
but you don't know that
until they take the first swing
my fingers are red and swollen from the cold
I'm getting bold in my old age
so go ahead, try the door
it doesn't matter anymore
I know the weakhearted are strongwilled
and we are being kept alive
until we're killed
he's up there the ice
is clinking in his glass
I don't ask
I just empty my pockets and wait
it's not fate
it's just circumstance
I don't fool myself with romance
I just live
phone number to phone number
dusting them against my thighs
in the warmth of my pockets
which whisper history incessantly
asking me
where were you

I lower my eyes
wishing I could cry more
and care less,
yes it's true,
I was trying to love someone again,
I was caught caring,
bearing weight

but I love this city, this state
this country is too large
and whoever's in charge up there
had better take the elevator down
and put more than change in our cup
or else we
are coming

Wednesday, July 10, 2013


By Paul Perry
Make me bitter
Count me among the almonds
From my mouth
You almost would have lived

Count me among the almonds.
The night is the night.
From my mouth
You almost would have lived.

The night is the night.
In the swell of wandering words
You almost would have lived
Without words too.

In the swell of wandering words.
You fill the urns and feed your heart.
Without words too.

And I lie with you, you in the refuse
Get drunk and name yourself Paris.
As if we could be we without us.

Count me among the almonds.
Make me bitter.
You almost would have lived.
Make me bitter.

Friday, February 10, 2012


Ribs bruised where you loved me. Feathered collarbones, cigarette burns on my shoulder. You inked kisses under my chin and pressed black fingerprints to my wrists, gaping holes in my heart where you punched in your affections. Peeling back sorrows to find the words you'd left behind, underneath my plams you'd written: we are infinite.