Weatherman’s a Liar

It was eighty degrees today. And the other day, three years before. Though commonly, I’ve been reminded that I don’t have the best of memories. While I’m likely wrong about the state of your thermometer, a handful of people can attest to the faded flash of red.

“You’re gonna pull a Marilyn. Stop, stop, shit.” Another purposeless air vent.

Here, we have no subways. Buses are mostly late. I’ll usually pick a seat that allows me to glance over everyone’s head, guessing what the guy with the large black thermos could be mouthing as a girl my age sobs amidst static space. I did some research for the first time in months, to find that my pills had been bottled in doses for restless children. This could explain a lot, but of course, I love caffeine. So I walked ahead for my milk and tea, in front of a car that continued to hum. No one was startled, and the driver just smiled. I tugged at my dress, murmuring that two months ago, it was five inches longer.

My chest ached again as I looked down, pulling a bra strap onto my shoulder. I counted the pigeons I knew so well. Four must have wandered elsewhere, as two cardboard memoirs sat torn beneath the nearest stoplight. I stilled myself in the parking lot. Toes aching and sweater sleeves wet. Out of the house for about five minutes, and I was sweating in runaway clothes, in want of excuses for scarves.


Bob Ross.
What would I do
without a gentle reminder
that I can do nothing wrong?


Perhaps that’s not exactly
what he intended to convey.

Just as I didn’t plan
on inviting a dashing fennec fox
to a party premature,
humid and fickle.

I dreamed of Yoda,
but my glasses
could always use
some gentle adjustments.


out to Boston by five

there is no need for a fan
when the sixties utter prophetic dreams
of the seventies when many
wouldn’t imagine
days where jackets cling to you.
That Winter Weight.
and, bored boyfriends
you will always remember for failed negotiations.

mainly, because he didn’t want to drive
all the way to Boston
and you didn’t believe him
when he said that in New Jersey
they won’t trust us with gas on any given day.
but, I wore my pumps well,
falling in the street.
oblivious, as a hungry bunny.

this that they call mania

I don’t know you.
But I’m caught
grappling with excess
and stressors floating
in a plastic cup,

slices of strawberry,
and the pinch of limes.
But is it enough
to wake me up?
The elevator mirror
laughs autopilot at every commuter,

while nickels drop
in a trashcan
where eager orange peels
pantomime and smile
beneath the sunlight
out of time.

mistook for the thing
that paints rainbows
and syntactic breadth,
may, in proper acknowledgement,
drift to save us all.

*Cat No. 37 of the 500 Cats Project

interstate twenty-five

I used to save my checks from that first job.
Mainly, because I liked the idea:
everything at once, and
nothing for months, as
cheap tuna casserole
over, and
bought my books
in its tedious way.

Be still, my credit score.
Admittedly shit.
And I sat in “your” car.
Daddy’s little car.
Because, he ran over a deer with yours.
The aggravating lick of young casualties.

Hell, I’m too tired to argue
over speculative propriety.
So, you squeezed my fingers.
Scabbed, leadless pencils.
Whispered, two weeks.

I’ll find my brain and use it
in two patient weeks.

Learning from Kate Winslet

“close your eyes,” he had always said.
rolling his eyes as I’d unroll my socks.
blister by blister,
an ant bite or two.
these are things I point to
when asked why the ears
of opinionated elephants
fold inwardly, wet
beneath a sarcastic sun.
peeling their skins in laughter,
and blaming Dumbo for his own conception.
but his journeys, they’re hardly prodigal.

the part where hand hits glass.
I passed, nodded, sipped.
my smoothie, a tasteless mango’s pit,
floating, its pieces
like her insides pressed
though she’s not phased either.
unlike myself on a deflating couch,
defending my skinny ankles
and glaring at no one as palm strikes cheek.


valerian tea.

what I’ve looked for
but gave up on.

the relief
I learned
that can’t
be sold
at ordinary
grocery stores
fifteen minutes
from imaginary
and unobtainable
glass renditions
of myself
quite diluted.

it was the only thing
admitted as your last card.

a reminder
that I
so young
and longwinded
was wearing
you out
and in
like dishcloths
and boxers
falling away
from hips
angled obtusely.

what I’ve looked for
but gave up on.

eloquent sleep.