Posted on Leave a comment

Once the Hoping Becomes an Apotheosis of Hoping

— after Farrah and Jared

To have trouble being loved but to fuck in a spirit of abundance

Because matter is bruising, hurtful, gleeful

To beget a dowdy glutton

Because George Clooney is blurbing the Bible

To catastrophize the enormity of an exhausted consciousness
Because old carnal lullabyes suddenly outnumber shit troughs

Because if a child is curled pearl
If a summer gets separated from its translucent humidity
If an outright legend lawn oaf finally sets down a light foot

Because chantress

because lunchbox

because loudmouths begrudging thunder

Because an embittered donut turns surfers into pasta
with heaving stained back pants
with need and thread and jelly beasts

and glitter outnumbering shoguns

and trebling sourdough

and shuttered ogling

For being close to remembering what an angel is multiplied by (4?)
For the rough river’s running on stout tender loins with whatever star is speaking now
For the sake of Staten Island Hitler’s trickle of supertall water pets

With hands as antennae to send and receive medicine

With a gust of abundance and YouTube premium

With velour feelings in fierce focus

and beginner gutters

and abattoirs

Posted on 2 Comments

As if to grow a blind antipodal proboscis

after Elisabeth Workman

As if to grow a blind antipodal proboscis,  
a seasonal coy puss, anticipating spring’s
noble denim. As if in the profaned spot an  

inlet, a new beauty troubled with poverty
(the swiftness of poverty.) As if in this old
textured abyss, ballads and drab poplin,

bloodstains; and Earth, in color resembling
the rainbow, unfurls its symbols of parting:
thickets and thunderclouds of birds. As if to

play-find and begrudge a thug playboy, in
virtue the same as a child, bright and pure
through the whole of heaven. As if, with a

goofy wrist and pill options, Zoom fields
instilled plaid and dirndl boobs. As if an
ewok would. Or trainloads of spoonbills.

Posted on Leave a comment

I Forgot to Schedule Sex

The recommendation was to schedule sex.

Scheduling sex was supposed to fix the ruminating-overthinking-OCD around mice. But I forgot to schedule it.

I didn’t schedule sex when I lived in Canada. In the forests across Canada, if your windows weren’t painted shut, you might open them at night and hear the tender sounds of mice taking time to comfort the spirits of the dead on their long journey home. Then the dead would get up and begin to dance. Then another and another, and another. Before long a whole bunch of dead and mice were dancing, spinning, and chanting.

Scheduling sex was, well, perhaps not about the mice, but about my beautiful enthusiasm for caring for mice.

I was told that scheduling sex was really about me caring for me. But I knew it was really about the mice.

I once forgot to schedule sex. It was during Tulane’s Sex Week.

Did you know that the modern treatment of seizures started in 1850 with the introduction of bromides, which was based on the theory that epilepsy was caused by an excessive sex drive? Scheduling sex might’ve helped there.

Bullfrog sex is fascinating and a little scary. But not as scary as what pigs do to parsley.

I’m actually a crazy pig lady now. I currently have 810 crazy pig lady ideas.

Ask me about an outside-the-box blackboard to write your sex schedule on.

Posted on 1 Comment

Like a Cache of Thrums

for Maria Damon

like releasing the gleaming of elms

like leaves in ceremonious passage

like the comfort in the ache of confusion still alive

still nothing to deserve it

like fat bees reeling from a current run among us

drunk with spring

like raw and sutured blue

armored and mountainous

spiraling until forgotten

on the ground in the cave now

like wrapped in a floating through blue and sliding down a lullaby

not so much to accompany as to protect

like the one and only place where something happened

and then all the other places

brutal around your neck like a noose of galaxies

like the ineffable texts of a lost cosmos

like spinning atoms unraveling habit and work and meaning

like it knows your name and you almost killed it because you were so grateful you wanted even the empty ribcage

like how people feel after visions of saints

like a flame leaping up in a dark richness of lovers

like those we’d loved but who hadn’t heard us calling

Posted on 2 Comments

Frequently Asked Questions — A Checklist

(A Post-Second Vax Still In Bed Because Of Body Aches Thing Composed Of Today’s Way Better Poems + Random Word Press Crap)

1.) How many times this week has my morning commute, or just plain driving to the grocery store, turned into a road-rage-inducing nightmare?

2.) Did a failed reporter bond to an alien entity and become one of the many symbiotes who will destroy Earth?

3.) Will I ever get over “abbatoir is a grammar”?

4.) Is the too-late start even a start? Even if I love unpeeled light?

5.) Are all of us who haven’t slept well in years the same people that get eaten by wolves in pornos?

6.) ¿Hay leche: Como puedo iniciar sesion?

7.) So You Want To Make Block Patterns?

8.) Brute force attack protection for the Jersey Community Meetup Flash Talk?

9.) Is the smell of Sbarro slice grease and Kool-Aid coming from my hair? or the sky full-lit and full-tilt?

10.) heart worms can crawl out of a dog’s nose?

11.) Do you know why this street is called My Lapidary Fears Have Become Unguents?

12.) Why should I unfriend her when I enjoy reporting her racist QAnon crap?

13.) dmv written test practice or elvish translator?

14.) If poets wrote laws and lawyers wrote an onomatopoeia of eyebrows?

15.) Are aging and living mostly thermodynamic?

‎16.) ¿Dónde? ¿Cuándo? ¿Quién? ¿Cómo? Ecstasy is some sugar daddy, si?

17.) Contiguous areas of what?

18.) the lizard starkly still against the boiling leaves but the devil just putzing around?

19.) Artist, Anger, Abortion, America, and . . .?

20.) any old blue roving?

21.) Are you finding strength in the softer vowels?

22.) Is that Elton John? (No, it’s John Candy)

23.) Monster buck can’t mate?

24.) the vulnerability of order under afflicted stars?

25.) You know what I’d really love right now? (Crackers?)

26.) Ja Rule, just because?

27.) So what are people? What is a fork? An ancient spoon? Are heebie geebies Jewish? Where was the first hullabaloo?

28.) the Doldrums or the Dardanelles?

29.) Sam Sundown: to rise or to shine?

30.) not the same robot?

31.) there are secret notes hanging in mezuzahs?

32.) What if Peter hadn’t caught the wolf?

33.) degrees

Posted on 2 Comments

Dear Weed Cousin Nine Times Removed

(yeah, it’s stupid and plus not finished but I wanted to post something)

Dear Weed Cousin nine times removed

Dear golden boogie daddy who works at Build-a-Bear

Dear facial herpes phenom and legendary emo moper

Dear suitcase college Humanities major forever on a journey of self-discovery

Dear uncle of little Am I Pregnant? brother-in-law of Mullet MILF and godfather of Five Days of Beer Pong Isn’t Even Close To A Record

Dear nuked the fridge in ’02 with mix CD bonerjams for some momala I forget now

Dear oh shit not la chancla most every Sunday during the summer

Dear Edward 40 Hands who used your stim on Bull Max 8% and oreos ‘cause you’re lactose-intolerant

Dear Death Bubba vaper who decided to press some terpy Quadra and call me up out of nowhere to be your date for the Lowe’s Valentine’s Day Lowemance Paint ‘n Sip

Dear bought a six of Big Flats for 3.99 at Walgreens to bring to the Valentine’s Day Lowemance Paint ‘n Sip along with homemade red velvet hash cake (and crayons)

Dear what’s up with the cake because back in high school you and Uncle Junior kept baking cakes in those round bundt-pan things and ended up with a massive six-layer monster cake that you took outside and left on the next door neighbor’s porch

Dear deemed “Most Romantic” by Lowe’s and awarded one of those moving fish tail clocks because your first name is Gil

Dear what happens at the Lowe’s in Canaryville stays at the Lowe’s in Canaryville

Posted on 2 Comments

At the Opening Ceremony of the Sheep Spirit Meeting

A unicorn unction maestro in a cloak of medical grade aluminum is summoning a banana to a lamb, a brandy to a steak, and virgin salsa to the proper functioning of word-frequencies at the opening ceremony of the Sheep Spirit Meeting.

But when the unicorn unction maestro summons a unicorn, and the summoned unicorn summons a smaller unicorn which in turn summons an even smaller unicorn, a silhouette of forsaken teddy bears shadowed by blood clouds and mustard begins forming over the opening ceremonies of the Sheep Spirit Meeting.

And the endorphins flow. The blood clouds produce Big Help Oil. Dr. Chest steps up to release grief with his long-suffering comforter Bethlehem. All dogs gain justice. Neroli rosemary and hyssop yield to cypress, to sighs rain sun emotions situations marjoram borage hawthorn and Norepinephrine the Bear. Mung beans become the urgent healing proclivities of a crow-devoured sky.

Then stars. Then night comes after a vulnerable sun. Then rest. Rest you deaths you blue cedars you salvias breathing brightness. Lemons. Clary. Hold healing and pass and come back with the wind. With the crying of wartime collarbones. With the growing exhales. The casual probabilities. The ships that go alone. Go, ill salts. Go, dark sight. Go with ease and word-frequencies all functioning properly at the opening ceremony of the Sheep Spirit Meeting

Posted on 3 Comments

Horse of long body, longer than God’s long syllables,

Horse of long body, longer than God’s long syllables
on gold mornings when your room was blue in a green
return of leaves — you gave your own name to leaving,
to a release of stars and wet vegetation that gained the
shape of gray lightning. Horse who recalled a deer in its
lean measure of flight and fire in all its red emblems, are
you only a name now, calling all the old names home? Now,
beyond this noise, your luminous voice is a stone in a cave,
a river of wool when you walk in bright skin of inconsistent
sugar. Horse, your light is me, the sea change of your
secret trees.

  • from an EPIC discussion group prompt — lines from Eunice Odio’s The Fire’s Journey

Posted on 2 Comments

She Had A Risible Oily Noggin (or, S-H-A-R-O-N)

She had a risible oily noggin.
Short horses and radioactive offal nuggets
supported her awkward ruinous ontology notions.

She hated anything responsible, old-school, normal:
secular halos, anecdotes, rejoicing over newlyweds.
She hallucinated aliens riding on narwhals,

suppurating hobbits aggravating rotund oleaginous numismatists,
shadow hand-aardvaarks ranting over nincompoopery.
“Sure, harpies are rocking-out nudists,”

she hissed after receiving only negativism.
Slowly, her ass roiled, offended; next,
she huffed anal recrudescences. Oof — normo-jism!

Posted on 1 Comment


Only ghosts now in the place where we were alive on the cul-de-sac prairie at Archer and Emerald,
making out in your car while a trucker watched from his cab. Only the ghosts of weeds, wildflowers,

car trash, the trucker and us, even though I’m still living. Hard to remember where the shadows began
and the daylight ended. Or how I used to describe you: a raptor? a rock star? Maybe. You smelled like

a drawer full of dirty t-shirts. You needed to wash your hair more, stop eating cheeseburgers. Hard to
recall why I thought death was interesting, at least as interesting as the blow job I gave you at Johnny

Yen’s wedding at the Swedish Singing Club by the lake. Only ghosts now too, at the Swedish Singing
Club by the lake. There’s probably more I’ve forgotten. There will be more, now. Like how we met.

Living is remembering. Death is forgetting the prairie, the wedding, the blow job, you, the girl.

Posted on 4 Comments

Checklist for NAPOWRIMO Day 2 (April 2, Good Friday)

1.) Zero Goat Thirty
2.) plug the dark mass in
3.) don’t wanna live in no fucking dragon’s eye
4.) blocked by garbage AGAIN
5.) drawing on eyebrows at the kitchen table
6.) Rise and/or shine
7.) mother a good gift-giver?
8.) Miz Cracker is Polish!
9.) rich rising, Goth chick #1
10.) need and thread
11.) sick hair, why am I here?
12.) kite belonging to the abandoned subway station
13.) I AM this room with the ugly wallpaper
14.) surfer + love = illumination
15.) Jungle Meth
16.) The Girl Who Never Pressed “Send”
17.) under afflicted stars
18.) GNOMES at Virgo
19.) Lowe’s Spring Equinox Paint ‘n Sip
20.) “Spinning Away” Eno & Cale
21.) the vulnerability of order
22.) Aries ingress, and any number of additional holes
23.) dispel stasis in the palace of blood
24.) If it moves around and swims how come I can eat it?
25.) forgive for the sake of water
26.) trees and me: electricity
27.) once hoping becomes an apotheosis of hoping
28.) Tonya Foster’s map project
29.) she’s nicer to her students than she is to me
30.) limerence is revisiting my earliest OCD
31.) I missed Sunday, because of upsets
32.) brick
33.) degrees

The Checklist is a form that was shared with me by poet and artist and beloved friend Fork Burke. It was shared with her by Robert Wallace, who learned about it from Daniel Kacyvenski (aka Daniel Joseph). “In the end, the Checklist is perhaps nothing more than a vain and futile attempt to capture in writing the tiny details of one’s life as they speed by too quickly and in too great a volume to ever grasp” — Robert Wallace. All Checklists end with “33” as a reference to freemasonry where 33 is “the highest level one can rise to” (Robert Wallace, May 2012)

Posted on 6 Comments


(this is the stupidest poem ever and the linebreaks will prob be totally messed up but happy NaPoWriMo all!)


April is the cruelest of the Most Cruel Months month

It’s the schmoo with a mullet who ruined my junior prom that I didn’t want to go to anyway

April is a mope

April is a mood

It’s the moo

It’s the fucking moo

It’s the stirring mixing clutching breeding for which I am so not ready
The branches branching and roots clutching and cute snowdrops breeding
And tubers
Fucking tubers
And fucking lilacs
And omg stop with the old gray snow and dead rain
And cruel mopeds
Fucking cruel mopeds loud in the loud sunshine for which I am really not ready

Bring back the hermetic chillness under blankets with oatmeal because it turns out
“Watermelon Sugar” now means eating pussy — so just stop

Stop all the stirring
Or how about a little drowning with all the stirring?
How about a little drowning of the sweaty faces in the stony places acting like stupid vaxholes posting selfies from Cancun?

And stop all the Death undoing
All the Death undoing with cruel unstoppered unguents, strange synthetic perfumes troubled confused and flung into the dancery forming more Earth and more roots and more fucking and desire and lilacs

Don’t forget the dead fucking rain even though I was here for it before when all the windows were closed and I had oatmeal and protective forgiving chillness

And the acid rain

Acid rain and the withered stumps the chuckles canals and gashouses the whores morons and twits a welcome indifference to whining mandolins fucking my people my humble people my beneficent spiders fucking my lean solicitors and everything fucking the life out of everything just fuckest me the fuck out already

And omg the acid-wash jeans

Acid-wash jeans are back and Katy Perry is wearing them and it’s The Worst Women in Menswear Moment of All Time, not counting all the women in their fifties named Sherry in pleated acid-wash jeans and candy striped shirts at monster truck rallies in Illinois yelling “Go Ricky! Smash that goddamned motherfuckin’ Buick!”

If you can’t do anything else then just take the fucking mandolins out hurry up please it’s time