On the 4 train, the cold air pounds away the sweat rummaging each fold and flap of my body. I fall asleep in drips. I realize that exhaustion has become like another bruise on my arm: purple. heavy. persistent in its spread. A well-dressed black man in pinstripes and electronic book on lap reads my shoulder. He tells me I am deep. Or, my skin is. We talk about restrictions and the ways in which we are forced out of our bodies by men with an agenda for our construction sites.                 (I am paraphrasing.) 

He says: Who has the right to another’s vagina but you? I have a daughter, he announces. I need to be aware of what can be fought away from her.



I almost obtained a male analyst.

I almost moved in with a man who loved the way my breath tasted.

I almost ate that banana today from the farm stand in Queens, until I remembered that two months ago, I bought some strawberries that may have given me chapped lips and a questionable rash, so instead I fed it to the mouth of garbage can on subway platform.

I almost quit my job again.

I almost bought a ticket to Minnesota to live with a Rebel in a yurt.

I almost removed all the particles of what I once was to find the gravity beneath.


We get off at the same stop and I wish him a good night as I travel from underground toward the evening summer steam. I haven’t seen the moon in days, though two nights ago I left the nudity of my bedroom to walk inside the tap-dancing rain to search for what I once was. I only got to the end of the block, then turned around.



I failed mathematics sophomore year of high school from forty-two absences and never reached the level of calculus. Even the quadratic equation cannot guide me to understand the pattern and comparable weight of mosquito bites on my limbs. They favor my right leg: thigh, calf, ankle. How flavorful is the fur that erodes me.


Before man read my body on Brooklyn bound subway, I digested a pint of poetry in east village bar full of music makers and spoken words. Briefly fell in love with a singer whose armpits had shadows like mine. Before I left, I kissed a human whose hunger for Canada will soon take her there. I sung my way toward E. 14th.



I call this callus: Neptune.


Upon realizing the strength of my backstory, I swept up my curls and climbed them onto the highest peak of my skull. Curved my back into a cape. No one can see me, I thought. Then, I hummed apologies until my throat collapsed like a poorly constructed bridge and that man who noticed the book implanted in my skin will tell his daughter that bodies should never be censored, nor evenings nor love nor magic……..



They can be dragged like a slur in the air. These mythical bugs of neon. Out of focus kisses of electricity. One night, she rummaged back against blades of grass, while Whitman watched and so did everyone else in this Brooklyn park. These clouds are jam-like, she said. Makes me hunger for knives and seeds. A summer is wrapped up in fumes of question marks and genetics ground up into foreplay. Some bodies are hairy, while others grow bulbs of light from abdomen. These insects are soft-bodied and brown and how many evenings until you learn the various shades of white that can occur on the other side of bones. Then, she speaks about a bloodied staircase and two bats swoop down and music rests inside padded coffin beside you but amidst all this lust, yellow, green, red waves of light.

silver tongued devil

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege to feature at the Rimes of the Ancient Mariner performance series. It’s a monthly evening of fantastic forms of poetry, pressed into a microphone at Identity Bar and Lounge hosted by The Ancient Mariner, a captivating storyteller/poet. This was an extra special evening since two of my favorite humans were just a few feet away from me as I poem’d and uke’d. They brought the scent of mountains to the sky-scraped NYC air.

An Evening of Independent Presses, Writers, & Performances

I am extremely excited to join InStereo Press as we take the stage for That’s Independents! an evening of NYC independent presses and the writers they’ve published curated by Three Rooms Press.

Where? Cornelia Street Cafe  29 Cornelia St. NYC

July 5th/ 6pm/ $8 (includes a drink)

Featuring: Dan Dissinger, Megan Dibello, Sam Jablon, Aimee Herman, Frank Simone, Hala Alyan and many others!


The Presses:

The UNBEARABLES are a free-floating, in-your-face Autonomous Zone of Dadaists, Noir Humorists and Beer Mystics. They base their actions of the book, TAZ, by Hakim Bey; they liberated the Brooklyn Bridge every September 13th for many years, picketed the New Yorker magazine, decrying the shitty poetry therein, and occupied the New School where they gave a series of anti-seminars.

In Stereo Press, founded March 2008, in Boulder, Colorado, In Stereo Press is an online zine specializing in undiscovered/new/contemporary writing, music, and visual art.

KICKS BOOKS is an independent publisher based in Brooklyn NY, whose “hip pocket paperback” line reflects the pulp obsessions of founder, Miriam Linna. A longtime collector of printed matter, and paperback books in particular, Linna fulfilled a promise to a friend by publishing his rehab writings in book form. SWEETS by rhythm & blues music legend Andre Williams, appeared in 2009 and has been followed by singular offerings by writers Harlan Ellison, Nick Tosches, Sun Ra and Kim Fowley.

great Weather For Media, founded in January 2012 by former Uphook Press editors Jane Ormerod, Thomas Fucaloro, and Brant Lyon—and later joined by George Wallace and Russ Green—great weather for MEDIA focuses on the unpredictable, the bright, the dark, and the innovative.

Three Rooms Press, founded in 1993, initially served as a leading independent publisher of poetry, drama and art sourced from the burgeoning spoken word, music and underground art scenes in San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York. Since 2012, it has expanded its mission to publish cutting edge work in fiction, creative historical nonfiction, memoir, photography and art. In 2014, it will expand its line to include children’s books.



a tale of several beautifuls

Blame it on symmetry. How near are her eyes to carefully constructed bridge of nose. Does she starve. Are her hips like the horizon, without fault or curve. Is her skin more mocha than medium rare. What blooms in the months outside of spring or autumn and when the leaves go away, how sturdy are the branches. Does your grass wilt or does it arrive like green erections plunged out of earth’s pores. Blame it on what distracts us. Call it brushed air. Call it removed particles of mistake. Her smile is white and heterosexual. His hair is without recede. That home is window’d and gorgeous due to its skylights and built-in 401K plan. Does her cellulite show. Does your health plan cover the creams you will need to rub it away. What is your routine. How many chemicals have attempted to peel away your skin; I think you might be beautiful under that fifth layer. Keep ripping at yourself. Scoop out and where there is tunnel, there is possibility for better. Blame it on tents and drawers and the tenacity of lies. Collocate implant with imbalance. Remove your girdle now. Help the redheaded dancer with her zipper and linger your looks at the way she folds like love letters. Quietly ask if you can dance your language into the cleavage of her mind. And the other one with painted eyebrows, thicker than the remorse from your 20’s. She is beautiful too. And that graffiti’d church that might be a bank now or was but has become a collaborative celebration of dripped paint now. And her nipples. And that cloud that kind of looks like your best friend from tenth grade. And that fence, painted turquoise. And your neck. And that meal you fed me when my palms were too tired to lift and curl. And that Wednesday you fell asleep inside me. And that rooftop garden. And the smell of patchouli you snuck inside magazine. And your sodium. And my blood. And that too.

the cost of it

That man over there is stealing wishes. He crouches low enough to saturate ankles only, as knuckles grip coins with hidden messages of measured hopes.

I want her to love me again /  I wish the knot beneath my breast goes away / I wish for work / I wish for peace / I wish the earth could be paved, so all the cracks could disappear / I wish all this rain and wind wouldn’t be so angry all the time / I wish i wish i wish i didn’t need to wish like this / I wish I wasn’t like this / I wish they understood why I need to change this / I wish I didn’t like the smell of my blood so much / I wish rent was lower and my paychecks were heavier / I wish for less war and more questions / I wish I wasn’t an addict/ I wish you had remained past your heal / I wish I didn’t want / I wish for more things / I wish. I wish. / I wish I knew / more / ……. 

I wonder if the wishes have already grown into truths, pushing them back into (just) currency. Then, his selfish pluck would have no effect on the wishers. I want to stop him from stealing desires. I want to give him the change from my pocket because there are no expectations attached, just dirt and smudge. I want to tell him that some people are still waiting on these. I want to remind him that he may have wishes in there too.

When I was younger, my mom would fish out a penny from her rectangular wallet and let me throw it into the fountain at the Freehold Raceway mall. It was the sound of splash that verified it was heard. My wishes were meaningless then, far lighter than the ones I toss out now. That fountain still exists and I’m still waiting on one or two hopes.

Now, I wish on rocks. Throw them with all my strength in Brooklyn puddles and hope that the steam of summer presses them into actuality.

Celebrate this heat with a preview of the HOT! Festival

Tonight, get a preview of the HOT, HOT, HOT shows that will be part of this year’s HOT! Festival at Dixon Place. I am so excited to be co-producing Electrify Gender! in this year’s fest with Essence Revealed on August 1st / 10pm / Dixon Place. 

Electrify Gender!  is an evening celebrating the spectrum of gender and sexualities through burlesque, spoken word and performance art. On this night, gender is bent and retranslated. It is twisted into a new discourse as performers question how bodies can experiment with the many versions of masculine and feminine. Featured performers include: Crimson Kitty, Sweet Lorraine, Bonnie Forest, Jherelle Benn, JZ Bich, Switch N’ Play, Essence Revealed and Aimee Herman.

Tonight, we will shimmy out a quick teaser to get your blood boiling, featuring the tantalizing Bonnie Forest. The entire night will feature many sneak previews of the HOT shows. For more information about the    HOT! Festival



HOT!, the oldest continually running GBLTQ festival in the world, has been a pioneer of queer arts and culture for over 20 years. Dixon Place is proud that HOT! serves as a model for other queer festivals across the globe, and offers an artistic refuge to so many passionate voices in our community. For over 20 years, the Dixon Place HOT! Festival has been presenting the most OUTrageous and OUTstanding Queer Performance. The Village Voice calls us “The Best LGBTQ Theater Festival in New York” — and 2013 is shaping up to be even bigger, better, and HOTTER than ever!

As always, HOT! is incredibly diverse and inclusive with over 200 artists presenting work that push your buttons, stir your emotions and deliver explicit, flat out entertainment. It’s a natural extension of New York City’s Gay Pride Month, with the best in LGBTQ culture and entertainment throughout the entire month of July and into August.

oh canada

Here is to to the entanglement of your united

Welcome in your new…..the ones who fled from the restrictions in order to gather up sturdier freedoms

Light up your sky with songs of electricity

Feed the ones who have gotten lost on the days that came before this

Gather up each other’s language / call out your mother tongue and slip it into the narrative of the aboriginals here before you

Bellow French, Kaska, Ojibwe, Comox, Cree, Arabic, Abnaki, German, Punjabi, Sekani, Haida, Mohawk, Tagalog, Tamil, Mandarin, English


Tell me of your province, in particular your territories. Drip your inlets, fjords, reservoirs and aquifers. I want to swim in your British Columbia and kiss the salt that hops aboard your ferries

Happy Birthday, Canada / Make a wish