but in your grey, talk about how you arrived

but when your palate splits inside the roof of your rage, talk about the moment you found breath or you found enough soil to sift through the palms of your voice and you dreamt earth

but when you feel hunted or hunt-less, storm the sky for tracks of lightening

but when you grieve, sip on oceans not spiked weep

but you can walk and you can swallow and you can bend and you can still you can still

but when you leak, pour harassed heart into another

but when you dry, find that place in your body that moans

but when you leave, draft words into blotted beams of light and let them know and let them know where you left off

sanity from (a) satellite

Dear full moon,

I love you best when I am menstruating (as I am now) because we can be bloated together. And if I could find someone to throw me up towards you, I’d use my longest fingernail to punture your reflection. Might there be blood? Blood like mine? Mine is at its deepest red. I can describe it as cherry-tongue-red. You can call it blushed-cheek-red right after you find out the woman of your dreams loves you back. What is your temperature, moon? Mine is grey. What is your mood, moon? Mine is cloudy with a chance of temper-tantrum.

Today, I rode my bicycle across the Manhattan bridge, wearing shaky legs and thick sweaty hair beneath my helmet. It was after being pronounced ill. Not like leaky-nose-ill or scratchy-throat ill. My skin is sad. My bones have been weeping. It’s difficult to make decisions, moon, when salt leaks from my sockets.

As I crossed that bridge, I floated above water. Subways were to my left and many other bicyclists sped along beside me because I pedal slowly, moon. How else can I digest all this beauty beneath me?

I am living out loud, moon, but I am living in secrecy.


You are the biggest secret in the sky, lurking even in daytime. I see you winking at the sun, flirtatiously haunting the skyline.

I see you, moon. And I am doing my best to gather up your glow-in-the-dark reflection and reinterpret it. So, give me your best full-frontal gasp. I do not want a side view, moon. I do not want your sliver, your crescent, your sucked-in salutation. I want all of your robust, overweight self. Hem-less and scratched. You are brassy and brave, moon. I want some of that to stain me.

When the bridge ended, I was no longer in Brooklyn. Signs in a language no longer in English greeted me and street vendors boasted of their dim sum, rather than hot dogs. This felt more like home to me, I thought, as I dripped my cells onto the green bike path, sectioned off from the cars and traffic.


How hard is it to admit we have “something”?

My second toe beside the widest one is longer than the others. Should I admit this and to whom?

For those who view my nudity for the first time, should I give them a heads up on my body hair? Perhaps a map to guide them where to find each part intentionally hidden.

I (used to) have a drug problem that is in remission now. Should I mention this too?

I stole a few times and can fill an entire auditorium with my lies. Should I announce this?

My favorite food used to be fruit-roll-ups. Do you really need to know this?

When I was two weeks past sixteen years old, birthday balloons still floating to the top of my childhood bedroom, I tried to kill myself (not the first time, nor the last).

At that time, I was not aware that sadness was a disease because it is not always visible on people like rosacea, trichotillomania or genital warts.

I look around at all the scars around me, on others, on my limbs, scars we gargle with, scars we balance on, scars we use as floatation devices, scars we shape into SOS messages.

If we could connect all these scars like a rope leading us away from the ghosts, perhaps we’d find a way out of this pain. And it is pain.

How to show mental pain. If it is not visible, you must be lying or crazy and are(n’t) they the same.

I have secrets. You think you know my secrets but I’ve got some more hiding behind the ones you think you know. I’m going to laminate each one into a trading card and see how many matches I can make. Show me what you’ve got.

I need to dig my eyes into other parts of this earth to find the ones who look more like me. Not like redhead me. Not like homo me. Not like agnostic leaning toward atheist me. Not like someone to compare my cellulite with or even the odd moles or beauty marks that have yet to be categorized. Not someone to tell me how worse off their childhood was/is.

I’m just searching for my scar sisters/brothers/humans. And we are going to have to talk about it because the scariest ones are those that cannot be seen.

I think I have an illness. It isn’t visible. I have no sores; my hair isn’t thinning; and although my appetite fluctuates, it’s unrelated.

I do not believe it is contagious, just cellular.

Let’s start talking about it more. Stretch out maps to include the paths that are too small to notice (or take). I’m reaching out.

how to commit to being alive

Gluttonous mice terrorize my shelves of packaged food and I am grappling with how to respond. These Brooklyn rodents seem to have a penchant for dehydrated hot chocolate and organic granola bars. They wanted nothing to do with my bag of spices, nor did they prefer the box of quinoa. I am trying…I am trying to settle into this lifestyle of New York and it is a lifestyle. Suddenly, I find myself making lists of necessities. What do I need right now and if these mice played instruments or cooked ratatouille, I might feel differently towards their war on my kitchen.

What is needed to survive through a day?

Today my breaths are perforated and severed and panic pushes my skin in awkward directions. Do mice get anxiety attacks? Do they feel remorse post-binge?

Here is what I want:
I want to be surrounded by faces who carry books, rather than humans addicted to Facebook.
Is it too late to grow distinguished?
I want to be well-dressed. Instead, I am just…well…dressed.

I notice a woman in the subway in white linen, firmly pressed dress with calves carved like museum statues. None of her hair flies away from her scalp and her pale slate eyeshadow matches her shoes.

I notice a grey suit hemmed perfectly at each end wearing a man like a newly reconnected lover. I want to be the one who someone whispers about and thinks: “Well done, sir.”

Or maybe we are noticing the wrong things. Or could it be that we are announcing inaccurate feelings or observations.

[How do you want me to react?
Are you looking?
Look at me.
Otherwise what’s the point?

Is anything experienced in private anymore?

I am researching lands where I can indent its dirt with my weight. Clog my pores with earthwormed-soil and feast on gardens breathing out seeded surprises. (I think) my skin is rotting here.

My dad always says it is wrong to kill an animal when it is living in its natural habitat. Don’t bother a spider if it is just tip-toeing (sans toes) over leaves and locks of grass. However, if it begins to crawl the walls of a house from the inside, it is fair game. No excessive violence; in fact, my father has been known to trap the critters in jars and let them back out. I always wonder if they snicker to themselves as they turn right back around and head back in…

In this moment, men are spraying the crevices of my tiny shared apartment with some kind of poison, which is having an odd effect on my ability to keep my eyes open. (or, that early morning sunset stealing my hours of sleep may be to blame). Am I safe from their teethmarks or will this just become a mere intermission from their foraging.

Today, I need to climb out of my window and attach each limb to a tree branch. I want splinters to open me up and force me to commit to life.

And once I make that commitment, must I stick to it?

An intriguing poet with magical and invisible wings says to me: “Don’t stop existing, ok?”

But I wanted to say, “Even in existence, we tend to cease to exist.”

We suck on reality shows like they are medicinal lollipops; while mice shake up our “routine” more than some man out for vengeance with a gun and a hit list. I’m not sure of the politics of these mice. If they were pro-choice, would I like them more? If they believed in same sex marriage all across the world, would I buy them their own package of hot chocolate mix?

I am really not sure about making such a commitment. The only things I can commit to at this time is hair color and my addiction to coffee. Life is too broad and uncertain.

Now, I walk out of home, trying to let go of the chemicals of poison, and conversate with the farmer’s at their weekly market. Spread myself out on a patch of grass with another and bask in sun, NY Times, fresh fruit. I’m not sure about tomorrow, but I can commit to today.

slate. charcoal. gunmetal. (storm)

A man in China awakes from sleep to find his penis has been stolen.

Men spread rumors that blow jobs cure morning sickness.

A young South African boy is drowned in a bathtub full of boiling water by robbers after the brutal murder of his parents with machete, golf club and gun.

In Brooklyn, the sky gurgles like an overfed stomach.

The darkest shade of dark is challenged when a storm arrives.

The rain drops like non-threatening bullets and press against exposed shoulder blades. A damp shove. The kind of bullets that need to replace the more popular variety.

On a night like this, sadness becomes an afterthought, because one cannot ignore the ghost of Pina Bosch entertaining us with her weathered choreography. These clouds are bodies. The best kind of bodies. Big, voluptuous, curved bodies. Fleshy and supple.

This is the kind of evening that reminds me why I have disposed of monogamy. This night, my mistress becomes the traffic lights blurred by the mist of precipitation.

This night, I let the wind wash away my own secreted salt. The storm arrived inside me hours ago, dare I say, decades ago. This storm is far more radiant.

Am I looking for some destruction? An interruption from this speed of city life?

I’m digging out my passport. It’s time to follow the right one.

Storm, lead me away.