how many times did I leave LA to meet you in new york


was spotted on stage dancing
sweat subsiding like a long list
of what I wore every time I broke
time I been left been picked up
been forgotten been remembered
for hiding hips under someone
else’s clothes. sweat like a list
of anything. of the number of
Septembers I took poetry seriously
how many times did I leave LA
to meet you in new york stretching
my torso across platforms across pools
up to ceilings I could only reach
while on your shoulders.

this was supposed to be a poem
about fashion. how alluring i am
when I break. this is a poem about
being early on the scene. blue shorts
with thin white lines circling each leg.
about ornately furnished rooms.
about what’s done to us when only
objects are watching. about standing
in your bathroom readying for a cleanse.
this was supposed to be a poem about
reaching for a missing shower cap.


I been smokin’ that can’t you tell, I’m high as hell
Hide my pain, but I hide it well, die for thinkin’ like Galileo
Posted with my homies, brosky rollin’ OZs
Hope this stogie that we smoking help me fake forget I’m lonely
[Lonely Massachusetts, on the road no roadies]

Until something is named…


“Sometimes you want to say things, and you’re missing an idea to make them with, and missing a word to make the idea with. In the beginning was the word. That’s how somebody tried to explain it once. Until something is named, it doesn’t exist.”
― Samuel R. Delany, Babel-17

(via holidayelle)

reed swamp song the body of you


instructions for drowning:

let your hair grow like the lies you tell
a boy through a fingerprinted car window
in August with the asphalt panting beneath you

shave your legs while singing
heel high on the chipped tiles
mouth in love with stones
don’t worry about someone walking in
what they might see
only another body can know the body of you

reed swamp song the body of you
when his hand under your dress when his

dandelions the sticky eyes of yellow grapes
dream about the bottom how it might
shape itself around your sadness

when his fingers in you when no light but fireflies
learn the vocabulary of water
how it is always reaching 




To start a fire, laugh until your fingers smell like yeast.
On the eleventh floor on a carpet the color of regret
let yourself double in size. The window the world
too small for you for kindling
use the bite mark you left
on your own shoulder because you wanted
to taste what the sun tasted.
He orders you a dirty martini
rubs his gaze on the inside of your palm
until you feel cheap.
The bartender is watching because a white girl
and a black guy. Because fingers and belt hoops.
This skirt is too short for you this skin
too alive. Let it burn you.
Somewhere just outside of Dupont Circle
argue until he misses his train
about touching your roommate.
Your words making white clouds between you.
You are not in love with him but you are scared
of silence. To start a fire
rub your breasts against a bridge.
Roll your tears onto a floured surface.
Let the dough learn the temperature of your blood.