Monday, September 28, 2009


He meets me easily--
simple, sweet day

Though dozing, you
only know

here's a sweet mistake--
blame the people
you make.


Purpled by the color clear,
I snuffed the fire
of the drink of fear.

People cheat the things they love,
perhaps I love nonchalantly enough.

The poison peeps between her eyes.
Calling for quiet, she sits and cries.

Sunday, September 27, 2009


My mother spoke silent poems
in her office
when she wanted to create
a life for us.

2 truths 2 lies 2 made-up facts 12 random words.

Before I leave, erase this stain,
join the quintillion clouds in the sky,
I’ll thank my mother, who let me
live in Staten Island
‘til I was old enough to write,
to mismatch my clothes,
and who sent me off
to work the cog
and be a woman.
Before this wheel ends up a rock,
I can see how things will
happen before I begin.
Though my favorite color
is that of dust,
I must absolve myself before
I end up a beak-less balloon.
I paid a nickel at
the cinema today.
I whistle my pride
in this shack.
I’ll forget all these words
when I go,
but thirty percent of scholars
have already
forgotten how to read.


Another orange day
is released from my hands;
the familiar and the
unfamiliar each
sift back into their worlds—
another orange sign
in my path,
colors mixed from
fury and energy,
or the ketchup in which
I told you your mother
must have bathed you.
I pull chilly sheets over me—
an orange head,
in my mind.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


shot your head
beside the lamp

with my cold, steady


Could I but keep these little rooms,
adorn them forever with delicate furnishings,
hang the rest of my life on these walls,
and sit the rest of my days on these thick,
plaid chairs,
I could be happy.

Had I the time to fix
every broken frame, so that no more people would fall out,
the lifeless clock that has run out of time,
the flowers gently wilting,
enjoying their last,
I would fix all I could
and be happy.

Were I alone the solitary owner,
the solitary dreamer, and duster
and companion to these plush bedfellows,
I could plant my plastic flowers
throughout this den
and be happy.

But the regal dust on my security blanket
suffocates me--

These rooms of antiquated wood and lace
need no master,
and surely I will find
myself here again.

But the water in the little glass kettle
boils its simple hymn
and the tiny ticks of the round, white clock
propel me forward,
and I must go.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

out on my own.

had you told me
in Gotham
that these worlds don't collide

i would have been set
for the worst.

re-confirming my love for will.

"If this stuff is not, in truth, infinitely amusing, it still can generate chuckles after four hundred years, and it would have served to lighten the burden of an exceedingly long school day. But it is certainly not the glimpse of a lost vocation. Ben Jonson wrote scholarly footnotes to his Roman plays and his classicizing masques; Shakespeare laughed and scribbled obscenities."

excerpt from Stephen Greenblatt's Will in the World.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

don't get swine flu.

even though,

ERNZ0A (8:43:45 PM): it's kind of hot actually
ERNZ0A (8:43:48 PM): to be that untouchable

Monday, September 14, 2009

is it bad when...

when you become your own character?
when you can talk about yourself as a character?
...when you can write about yourself as one?

what are you then?

Saturday, September 12, 2009


Dunk me in ink
Watch me feel my way out
I drip and I sweat
And I’m covered
Inspiration chokes me
I need to leave—
We need to leave
But I can’t swim toward you,
I’m stuck
In ink.
I gasp for life
At the top of a well
I’m drenched in
Clear liquid
I know what must be done.



Something like life watches from the window,
analyzes this portrait of woman and man.
Touching the frame, his hair is a sunset of red
in what is left lingering of light.
She wraps around his tender throat a scarf,
and this is the lover’s triumph.

They’re lonely in a crowd of triumph
that sits outside the window.
He stands and hides inside his scarf;
this perfectly structured man—
or maybe it’s just the light
under which they both once read.

She stares and feels and knows the red
hair that takes her silly life captive, triumphs.
And now the heavy things are light
as they sit beside the curious window
that reveals the room of another man
in another plaid and perfumed scarf.

Her man sees the otherworldly scarf.
In it, no hint of red,
just a piece of fabric on another man
who is her eye’s triumph.
They consider the man in his window,
his face drifting from darkness to light.

She is not in favor of her little room’s light
that sleeps above the soft, calm scarf,
but she cannot leave the stubborn window
that distracts her, like a poem she read.
She knows she must stay, that the glass will triumph,
and she’ll fall back into the arms of her man.

She exists here, her breath is this man
whose foamy-white skin, and light
caramel eyes are her heart’s triumph.
She purchased that complex, knotted-up scarf
and cries out ink that is red,
two feet from the parted window.

Separating light from the red
in the scarf, of the man,
it is the window who triumphs.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

i'm not sure why.

"...she is in love with the skinny kid who sold her cigarettes at the 7-11,
and if the world had any compassion
it would let the two of them pass
a Marlboro Light back and forth
until their fingers eventually touched, their mouths
sucking and blowing.
If the world knew how
the light bulb loved the socket
then we would all be better off..."

excerpt from "Love," by Matthew Dickman.


I go through the pages of a life --
clean edges of blue, lined with words that
tremble under the reality
of the present,
the promise of my fingers
to lift them up, my voice to
their existence
into this life.

My hands grasp
the metal ring,
and all the writing now
is gone from the pages.


Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Thursday, September 3, 2009

don't stop here.

"This is what you shall do: Love the earth and the sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labors to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body."

"The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters is simplicity."

-Walt Whitman, Preface to the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass

Brilliant. Read the whole thing.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

tuna and onions.

Where am i in the schism that exists? The introspective torrent of a life of thought and passion clashes with the desire for a life of understanding, snug relation to my fellow humans, and, above all, unself-conscious connection to their words and ways. How do I live both lives? Must one be foregone? Who lives in this head that searches indecisively over my shoulders? Whose thoughts compose this body, forces breath to its core? When will my two selves coexist? When will I be definite?

i really like magritte.

inspired by french class.