Rainbow of Crows

for Jules and Rebecca and Jessica (summoners of wisdom)


None of this was here before, yet I can’t remember what you looked like without. All the hair on your arms got burnt somehow by July or nocturnal angels. You can call that scar a footnote to the rest of you. It doesn’t have to be tragic or metaphorical. Like that time you swam over disconnected limbs and tried to imagine the shape they used to belong to.

None of this is because of you.

One of the hardest parts about leaving is the moon is never available for a one-on-one and when you try to dial its number, all you get are the sounds of birds’ wings crashing.

Like an applause. Like the milky rust of a stubborn teardrop. Like a heat rash on the part of your body billboards tell you to flatten. Like the horizon on a fingernail. Like what happens when you emerge from a corn maze and at the end, a rainbow of crows.

planetary floatation device (a collaboration with Rebel Diaz)

for the humans building levees in Boulder, Colorado and especially for the one driving around wearing rebel cape

Boulder is under sacrament; what was inwardly gathering is making its way through the street. A city submerged and there is something about Boulder every time, something about its cracks and crevices that make it animate, alive, being. Makes me sketch my own body over its terrain, to lie down in its topography, the curves down my side along its front range, my belly its basin, my veins and sinew down over its expanding creeks. When it was burning, I too, felt the burn off of other, dead, dried out selves and with this

with this

with this

I feel the washing away of man-made. I feel a baptismal flushing over every man-constructed roadway, we were not symbiotic with land so what amassed is releasing, christening concrete, carrying free radicals downstream, toxins of manbuilt frothing up a layer of foam, crashing against magnesium levees. This is a language we have yet to learn. Is it wrong to root for the river flowing?  I am this bodycity, detoxifying. I am forgiven with its destruction, ashamed of the warming we cause

through this

through this

There are enough trees to build a boat around this earth and when we carve out the bark into planks of home, we can float ourselves out of here. Unravel the maps you’ve been hoarding beneath your tongue. Your spit is the lacquer that will lubricate the lacerations from this flood.  Follow me out.

and over

and over

Over there, a bearded human of glowing heart proportions steers a metal animal with rubber limbs and engine steam. Calls out to the ones who cannot swim to jump in jump in jump in. Listens to blue lips, lies down on blue shag of alone, takes time to heal. Another sits wide open, familyless, exposed in his empty room. The sky may be one giant cape to cover up what we’ve done but even the clouds cannot help but weep when reminded of this devastation.

so weep

so weep

so weep your creeks further, wider, over more than man-made, across aroma of Nebraskshit, 1800 miles to curly stoop made of crowned sediment and rooted in I-am-here I-am-here I-am-here (for you). Your water is biblical so wash away indents of childhood, remind us, we are the sacristy, the rooms which hold sacred vessels. Remind man-made of heart-made, of lying down in floods of reflection and loving it; remind us that these are the moments we should never forget


How to Kick Poetry

When I moved back to Brooklyn a few years ago, I had some hopes of what I wanted to do. Become a student again and work toward/complete my MFA in Creative Writing. Read books by people whose names I have never pronounced. Wear poems on my body because clothes never quite fit me right. Meet other poets and performance artists who would challenge me and inspire my thoughts. Learn. Love. Locate.

Some things we can control, some things we must create.

After a magical journey to Boulder, Colorado several years earlier, I attended Naropa University, home of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. I found stages, ACTivists, music makers, gender warriors and….my fire. I lost sleep– in exchange for beautiful love affairs with patchouli-smoked skin and marathon poetry evenings.

My arrival back to NYC was emotional, but as I shifted my body into overpriced desks, I soaked in Baudelaire, Virginia Woolf, Frank O’Hara and others.

This led me to completing a book, which later got published.

This led me to finding the most supportive group of performance poets and writers, who led me to their stages and spaces and into their lives.

this surprisingly led me back to some of the magical folks from Boulder, Colorado.

I learned of an extremely innovative project by the Quens poet Megan DiBello, who was poem’ing in Boulder at the same time as I all those years ago.

Megan wanted to create a space…an experimental school…where people of all backgrounds could take affordable creative workshops from artists teaching poetry, song/music writing, photography, fiction and the business of writing.

She pressed her thoughts and dreams into an action, which led to Poetry Teachers NYC.

I am so proud to be a part of this collective, which hosts monthly open mics at Milk & Roses in Brooklyn, creatively diverse workshops and various performance events.

But like many dreams, there needs to be some more movement. And through movement, we must:

We have officially launched our KICKSTARTER.

In a time where many of us are trying to live out our dreams, there is no time better than NOW to support each other. Even if it’s the amount you set aside for your cups of coffee for the week, this money will lead to artists working and teaching and creating.

Watch our video. Learn more about who/what we are. Support. Because as humans, we need to give back sometimes to recognize the beauty and inspiration from collaboration.

arrival of sky-scraped body

Dear Colorado,

Remember when we first met?
My hair was not so red and not so long and not so knotty.
I arrived early in the morning with my sister after a long car ride from Brooklyn on Interstate 80 where meals were devoured with the speed of miles on green Honda Civic.

I had no idea how wide you were.

I heard all about those mountains, but didn’t expect to climb them or picnic against your grooves or kiss at the top of one on a day that I watched turn into night.

Your dirt is cleaner than the dirt I grew accustomed to.
And although you are land-locked, I took naps and carved poems into my notebook by Boulder’s creek.

I lived in five homes: two studios, two apartments and the bottom level of a home.

I fell in love. I earned a degree. I hosted an open mic. I became a freelance writer. I performed. I learned how to knit. I learned what kale is. I learned what quinoa is. I found community. I found activism. I found music. I found my self.

Denver, I’m aware of your parks (over 200).
Boulder, I’m aware of your bike lanes and poetic lineage.

Will you remember me?
Will you recognize me?

When I shake off the dirt of Brooklyn from my body/ I will ask you if I have changed/ And I might inquire if I’ve grown/ And I may want to know if it’s OK that I’ve returned.

Sometimes, we just need to leave in order to know what has been left behind…….