foggy mems

burned the coffee thinking of words
to use when writing about you.
(what word rhymes with commission?)

I’m still kinda missing that one night
where we, where uh, well, we watched
that movie at the friend’s apartment who

had the dog that was scared of me (“she
just doesn’t like GUYS”). we posted
up in summer night seriousness and

even though we were stoned you would
flash some steel sober looks at me, and I
left awed, staggered: who’s this chick?

you know, the coffee dripped out okay,
but I still don’t know what details to
add and what to give an omission.

wait, what about the song?

I finally found your theme song,
you know, all about French exits

and men stumbling over you,
back into boys it seems.

and now I have got some stupid
hunger, or call it some craving

for the skin you had let me taste,
the neck, lips, your inner right

honestly it seems like a waste
fucking around that last night–

but still very tight and lucid,
me on a bed corner, raving

over what I want to do too.
nothing left to redeem

for affection. it’s been too long.
and you don’t speak “no.” you text it.

all this week

all this talk of normative rhyme is making me sleepy.
‘I never really have been a fan of tradition,’ I tell myself,
and a smile gets forced to my lips

by my brain.

I am an alcoholic, because I want a drink now
and nearly always.

I am in love because I close my eyes and think of you. this is
all wrong.

alright, let’s dance a little, watch Frasier till we sleep,
surf with clothes off, on someone’s bed, not our own.
you be Roz, I’ll be the stranger.

Fog Night

No one can tell what descended faster, the fog
or the darkness, (I asked around) and still,
it got black too quickly. They all said

it had to be magic, this city-sized cloud
that fell on and about the
city. Strike me awestruck the way a 21st

century city could get this light-less; we’re in such
a bright world these days. Not tonight. It’s a slog
to just gaze down the street. No visibility, so every
neighborhood is a maze. I pray not too many drunks
wander from sidewalk to middle-of-the road. Not many
cars can swerve as they should. Death can dance with this fog.

Don’t go out

I babysit broken blonde bombshells and smoke a cigarette
with a marine. Easy come, easy go.

It’s obvious the man has never had a joint. You’re asleep on
the sidewalk, all curled up, fetal-like but sitting.


Nothing turns me on like short nails, a ‘who cares’ pony tail,
and flats.

Sometimes I like thick eyebrows.


I wear my beanie this way because you liked
it like this; this is how you taught, this is what
you prefer.

I went to bed with my phone in my pocket because
that’s poetic. No questions.

You have to find the gorgeous who love the homely;
no matter what you do, no one will call you comely.

New poetry, I’ve been told

I’ve recently had a poem of mine published on the fantastical site, New Wave Vomit. Check it out here.

Last night this poem popped into my head. It was really haunting, at 2:30 in the morning. I was like, “I’m not going to bed till I write this fucker down.”

Here it is.

let’s sleep now

feed your

own eyes


feel this

feel this

feel this



let me go