days in a week

pristine immunity
was never a truth,
but there is a point to
the simplest things.

apples, little globes
of water contained
with a charge so subtle
we can barely hear it.

with every itch, every
prick at the folds of
our skin, drying through
another nebulous day.

it’s the shock of it,
cold as swing set steel
that prompts us to sketch
stick figures ever lost.

we wrap ourselves up
and wear bubble wrap
masks, and cut into our
palest, stained jeans.

blue bodies and white
exhalations reveal our
struggle, knowing no one
alleged to cry “wolf.”

we wait, breathing in
the rubber cement, its
pungent, hard denial toying
with life’s unsure lips.

Frenzied Diaspora

the roots have been severed
as dirt hits my face.
gravel that flies in anyone’s path
when pedestrian anticipation
and the calm of linens in a miniature loft
do leave us forgetting
that perhaps it’s a deed
of passion’s authenticity.
an apple core blanched
with an immunity to chemical change.

septuagenarian marriages
can and do exist
on bridges that laugh
at the pettiness of bottlenecked highways.

he loves her.

but all is pulled unbeknownst
to the woman in the beige trench coat.
a suitcase clasped, and papers brittle
with a squirming temptation
to throw up her hands,
and say, “I’m done.”

wander for love.
the things we see two blocks from home.
fingernails of soot, roots unbraided
and a scowl to the sky,
for April comes.

I shake my head and remember
that I actually carried pockets.
but never was I quite careful,
as to where I handled cash.

foreign marigolds lay.
legs and all, maimed in evening’s quiet.

Pre-order Connie Undone on Amazon. Or, buy a signed copy from me directly for $12. 

January 2016

I could not provide an answer,
nor could I gesticulate
as my veins curled similarly
to roundworms in cats’ rejection.

murmured the name of the medical scribe
but I stared at the doctor, pale
as the white coat I already sullied
with my lower middle class and ignorance.

flickering, the ceiling insulted the charity bed
that funds the frostbitten—frequent fliers
I could hear miles away,
for the morphine disappointed like decaf.

I wouldn’t return to work,
and that is what I wanted
but only in those hours
when I felt I did no good.

there was no pillow to clutch
and I had worn down all my brushes
used to glue together a quiet collage
of words in Helvetica you never meant.

I do not wish to taste
wet saltines of an awkward love
but I managed to sleep on thumbtacks
for a boy who had no time.

Pre-order Connie Undone on Amazon. Or, buy a signed copy from me directly for $12. 

hungry equality

consensus declares
that a lick from a dog
is worth far less
than a cat’s slow wink.

before the dog’s eyes,
you sit, blemishes
airbrushed through grain
and accepted, like undone ribbons
of VHS cassettes, their tops
glistening like cured resin on tile
one finds on tables yielding meat
that any girl may offer for trust.

eventually, you will admit
that this dog is just one
of the five that kissed your hand
and the few warming up to your meal.

it will tell you
in rhythmic nudges
that people are not interesting,
though that one Saturday
introductions played their tricks
as the dog continued to ask
how you could just walk
so ignorant of your depth.

you committed no wrong
as the dog moved quickly,
perhaps in a two-hour span
to yet another slice cooked medium rare.

Pre-order Connie Undone on Amazon. Or, buy a signed copy from me directly for $12. 

Dust Bunnies

A bouquet of dust bunnies in my head. Dirty, battered feet.

I didn’t want to leave this bed today, but I did, because I’m motivated by stupid, babyish things. Like that dress and sweater I cast aside last night, to wear today. With pantyhose three shades darker than my natural skin tone.

I grow paler everyday, and I think this gray tooth, it’s pretty much decaying. But that’s okay. Braces were something I wanted so badly, at thirteen years old. Nearing twenty-three, I realized any sensible person doesn’t care about how straight and flawless your teeth are.

I am that off-putting kid whose everyday happenings mirror that of a “Bad Luck Brian” meme. I don’t mean to, but when I just want to fulfill someone’s request to write a letter every once in a while, and only scare that person away, what’s the point of a pen pal?

If I were coordinated, and my parents cared to put me in dance lessons as soon as one possibly could, well, I would have left that showing of Black Swan thinking, “Woah, I can totally relate!” Just like every sad young girl who reads or watches something gripping and wants to somehow take a piece of that everywhere she goes. Primarily to job interviews.

I said I’d visit you back in September, but mid-month I decided not to. How in the hell do you start life anew?

The dust bunnies sit back, and drink their cognac and sing their songs. I grind my teeth at 3 AM, and rock myself back and forth. I almost hit the wall. The bunnies, the accidental boo boos, my abused molars. These are too real (well, maybe not the bunnies, but you never know).

But I do not need to be told, for the septillionth time, that they were birthed out of a scoffing towards God. It’s an unsolicited answer communicated so often that I wonder if it’s true.

And if those who so fervently relay the message get some sort of commission, amounts vary by circumstance.

Pre-order Connie Undone on Amazon. Or, buy a signed copy from me directly for $12. 

approaching some kind of diplomacy

hungry for something
sharper than mint.

this is my first invitation,
and although I lack the
qualifications to advise you
on how to deal with those
noisy neighbors, I do have
pointed ears, open and aware
of the crackling, your knuckles
gone pale from lost sleep.

once I was told that there is
a difference, that judgment didn’t
count against us if we took time
to assimilate, to foster these
saplings like the tastiest of greens,
drizzled in the kindness of cheap
olive oil, almost odorless and clear
like the tears we’ve swallowed out
of bitterness, our confusion tucked
beneath fraying and grayed pillows
gone hard between hospital walls.

gone for just a weekend,
but the floor screeches like
overworked vinyl, and I am
unsure that it is my smirk that
set the pundits off, that divided
the schoolgirls who come to class
a little after six in the morning,
brandishing their plastic spoons.

huddled beneath
our implacable sun.

Cat No. 135 of the 500 Cats Project

the shamelessness of sticker shock

I am the remainder.
that “Merry and Bright” that
whispers from shrunken windows
of overcrowded shops.

your grievances scurry to the edge
of a lopsided bed :: and rainfall
writes hurried speeches, made
heavy but not too pedantic, thanks
to the stutter that feeds the dead.

midnight comes too frequently,
and I throw away the last of my
birthday matches, those gracing
pastel cakes, lemon icing crying
that it’s so unfair, the dry center.

I pay them my retainer.
that dark “I promise” that
flings itself from tired shingles
onto many an unwashed car.

Cat No. 134 of the 500 Cats Project