Sunday, September 2, 2012

For those seeking my body as Passage:

I am sorry.
I am not a proper vessel,
I sometimes allow the swells to toss me
to and fro
just to let my barnacles breathe
a little bit

I’m sorry
but I do not turn
when you twist your engines into me
I am sorry
that the smoke you planted,
hot & coalful in my belly
is now a rising stink
emptied of results intended.

I am sorry
but your cargo doesn’t fit
& we are taking a detour,
so I can deepen my bonds with the whales
& sirens.

I am sorry
but I will not tell them to soften their voices.
That uncontrol you think you are feeling,
that magic they sang into your skin,
only unhinges the clasp
on your own
unpracticed accountability.

Some might say its your own fault
that your ears were just
for their moonsong
but not me.
I know how truly innocent you are;
how the shift from silence to siren can feel so sudden & small.

I feel your fear.

& I am sorry
that the whales will devour you
& your raw untightened eardrums.

I am sorry I put the force
of you in danger
but this is what you face
when you board me
with your brawn
all hung out and blazing.

My Butch

My butch is budding.
At night my butch crawls out,
& curls up in my bra to suck out the long day’s yellowing sweat.

My butch loves meat
& would nail your body
hot and skinfull to the nearest wall
if you bought her a cheeseburger.

My butch guffaws proudly at farts.

My butch can be both tender and creatively rough.
my butch will ignite the sweat between your breasts
her eyes will dance at the changes in your breath.
My butch has a firm grasp on your shoulder.
She’s not afraid to clutch ankles
or use your hipbones like a turning fork.

My butch always keeps lubricant handy
in case the gears get thirsty.

My butch is budding
beautiful and large and proud down to every follicle
my butch smiles knowingly
when the pedestrians notice
her fuzzy undercarriage.

My butch is irritated by underwear that is anything less than comfortable

My butch tells me that my cock
looks better
with a little bit of belly hanging over.

My butch is all push back & crafty syllogisms
my butch makes love like retaliation.

My butch is still recovering from my father’s displeasure.
My butch tells me not to downshift
that the pain my ass will ache when morning comes
is worth the climb.
And that my legs
deserve to be bigger.

My butch tells me
that being a happy mussel
is more important than suffering pearls.
And then she laughs like emptied abalone clacking.

My butch tells me
that sweat is the evidence of love and dignity.
My butch loves the dirt.
My butch thinks that poppies
about to burst
and look just like nipples,
throbbing fuzzily in the breeze.
My butch is budding.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

"See Something? Say Something."

I see senior after senior pulled aside
each apologizes for not removing
from bags packed with care & wrinkled fingers.
items certain to be incendiary:
a bottle of water she'd meant to drink while waiting in line.
I think of my own grandparents
and let loose a shudder
noticeable to those who stand directly behind
they look me over with the disdain
that's become the comfort of the modern traveler.

I see their anxieties bristle into xenophobic bitterness
I see my thoughts curdle at the sound of their french
at the sound of chinese.
For a moment
The security theatre begins to work,
and I despise them for their difference
for their compliance in this dignity-stripping ritual.

I see massed ritual submission.
I see the blind
the resigned;
A gangly teenager raises her arms for the machine,
Smiles big
& shows how much she's bracing.

I see my own resentment
Tensing my body
tensing my face.
I teeter,
soul tearing slow & terse away from skin.

I see them step into the backscatter machine
more than half are herded between its black box theatres
most assent easily
to its effects untested.
Don't want to cause a stir, see.
After unbuckling danger from my body
& placing all traces of agency
into plastic
ad tongued bins

I see that it is my turn.
I see the precipice between
metal detector and backscattered invasion
I see the waiting
I see the shabbily uniformed agent
before he notices me.
For a moment I hope
Maybe he wont.

He sees my naked feet first
his left arm waves toward invasion.
And quiet like a child's under discipline
I use my voice to see my feelings and say
“I'm not doing that.”

I see exasperation in his eyes
my teeth see the fear in my lip
and push it back in
I see myself holding up the line.
With fear-colored pupils cinching smaller
I see my own refusal as the problem it is causing.

“I see.”
After a wait
he provides me with a TSA agent
who matches the gender he has perceived me to be.

I see the X where she tells me to stand.
I see her mime the twisted ritual
her brown hand calmly script the forced intimacy
“back of the hand across the buttocks,
twice inside of the thigh.
Raise your arms
face palms to the sky.”

I see
the gloved hands hover
under arm pits,
blue behind my shoulders
where their hovering becomes
the seeing I do with my skin.
Muffled under my preemptive leggings
the pressure is slow

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

After hosting Sunday Brunch

Today was a series of delightful devourings
Crisply climaxed in feelings nappish on a sunday afternoon
In a tumble of dreams
I churn my legs like a dog.
I pile my dreams like pooches snoozing together in weather too hot.

When the dreams finally get me
I am a mixed metaphor
running amok
in a run on sentence.

In response to the slightly aggravated question: Why are there so many bottoms in Seattle?

In all honesty I am over the whole top/bottom dichotomy
if you are not some sort of switch,
or at least into flexibility
chances are you will only half -interest me.
I bore easily under the spectrum of such narrow sexual repertoire
and yes I know there it’s a lot of depth there to be plumbed on either side of that coin
but I am more than just a spelunker in one kind of sexual experiences
I am fucking astronaut
When I play
I like the entire universe as my playground
it's important to have a well oiled rocket and
a basic fluency in the language we're going to use as sexplorerers
and within those parameters
I want to be able to go anywhere,
and to have each of my crew members capable of holding any post
and even sometimes
taking up more than one position.

But it’s not just preference I am frustrated at failing to court;
There is something about Seattle
something about which I find myself confusedly reticent.
It’s a habbit
the way some folks bury their intent in a nervous pile of being polite.
In this beautiful, briny, salt-breasted city
it sticks like a burr to my skin
adding to the geography of my story
and I don’t want no more of it.
It happens in bars, at parties,
This toxic hesitance floats out over drinks.

So, while I don’t know why there are so many bottoms in seattle
I worry that for some
being supplicant is so much easier than being honest.

This does not appeal to me.
Personally or politically.
Come forward only if you are sure of you.
I no longer find such shyness or compliance attractive
I have taught that flavor out of my palate
and no that doesn't mean that I don't want you
but unless you say it in words unmistakable that you want me too
I might have to turn the both of us down.
I don’t want power you didn’t ask for me to take
I don’t want to give you anything that you didn’t ask for.

So yes I want you
but I am tired of being the first one to speak so freely.
I know it is scary but I am tiring of this anxiety.
I am unwilling to endure or delivers blows that have been softened.

Demure is a fashion I feel I am continually taking off.
I want to share our truths unburdened
under the flickering light of our hearts going wild
fluttering in double-mouthed authenticity.

It is okay to tell me that you are afraid
I want
to be with you in moments of vulnerability.
I would cradle your words between my lungs
and let those concerns be rocked by the solid pumping of blood

I want to be with you
and you being with me requires courage, honesty
and clear consentful words.
maybe more courage than anything else
But that’s my price of admission.
I want your consent flush in my ears before I get any closer.

Sunday, April 29, 2012


Nauseous and incomprehensible
my stomach reaches up
turning over my lungs.
The fire alaram tickles into screeches
and we rush pry windows into crossdrafts.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

I'll vacuum tomorrow (4/25)

All day I mired by the window
forced wonders at what I might
maybe get to doing.

Soaked too long int he tub
with water too hot
but I mired anyway.

If from afar I saw a loved one
practicing such self-abuse
I would scold with advice well meant
and take their body out to the world
where suddenly they'd remember the delight it is to be;
where they could sweat their souls back in.

I am not a far off lover
for whom I would delight in heroic rescue
it's just me
putting things off,
watching a fourth episode of Law & Order
while mired by the window.

Written 4/24, in response to a poem read in class called "dis-pelt"

 Dis- :

A prefix that shuts down the word which it begins,
passes between teenaged streets
that crack at the corners
of disparate ideas
& disperate forms of dress.
If you can hold a dissonant symphony of thoughts
between your skull & jaw & your knocking explosive eardrumbones
you might just be able to
 resist the power of the dis-

It's mechanics are more than that of simple negation,
it's the exponential depreciation of the integrity of syllables.
I always feel sorry for those unlucky enough to follow "dis-",
those trembling alphabetic glyphs,
You're meant to look not at them,
but the rate at which their meaning degrades over time.

This 3-letter prefix
points a spotlight
at the spectacle of words losing their dignity.
Casual use of this prefix
may lead to dystopian futures, reality TV, & sever disappointment.

Sexy Spring Poem (drunk edition) 4/23

This spring
the daylight has become a series of chasers.
Hot laughter bubbling up
through the fizz of sunshine.
I am refreshed.
Repeatedly refreshed.

As my skin gathers up its bright red hangover
the sun is drowning like a grapefruit
& the vodka is coming,
certain as the moon
the robust bottles,
they are coming.

The wine will turn your skin-based sunshine
into freckles & brown flaking skin.
Tonight our sheets will be a blizzard of skin
that springtime is shuffling off.

Burns cook off in the night,
like the lilac vodka you soaked out french toast in.
The calendar is widening her eyes.
The horizon has got infinity on its breath.
We duck that florid purpling afterglow
& begin fucking in the blossomed yawn of a cherry tree.

I find you in desperate need of muddling.
You cracked so beautifully
when I poured my intoxicated body over you.

Sunday, April 22, 2012


Having spent too long alone in a park,
I extracted a ladybug from my cleavage
It was shuddering spotted and devine.

Drunk at a bus stop last night.

Midnight Strikes me at the corner of icons.
I just wish the bus would come.
& brandish my headphones against the night
and its mouthful of wanderers.
Seattle's needle fingering my eyes
with orange-drunk nostalgia
I imagine the saucer as a wildly disproportionate hamburger,
Its bottom bun is jellyfish lettuce
all held up with a matrix of toothpicks
and in the center
one phosphorescent spine
stabilizes my appetite for combining disparate genres.
Space travel;
Ground beef;
and submarining.

Friday, April 20, 2012

Love Letter to the Beacon Hill Library (If I could I would slip it into their locker!)

Arcing innards,
I am pressing my vision against the exposed beams
and the naked weavework of  your clean unvarnished wood.
I imagine I can smell the belly of a ship,
my eyes leap up and imagine what your form imagines you must be.

You cause stutters and missing syllables in the words I speak for you.
I love being beneath the roof of your pale expansive wordworks.
oh to be a pine weevil in your body of thin, tawny twists & squiggles.
I know it is creepy but I dream it anyway.

For this I am sorry,
and ashamed enough to bend my upcraned neck
back down to where it should be
and burry my face in a book,
looking for some sort of consolation.

Fremont (4/19)

Pink child-sized fingerprints of spring
stick petulant to the small red speed of the Mazda Miata.
The rain will ambush you,
even if you hide your convertible beneath the trees.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

What comes to light (4/18)

Don't you love
the way glass looks
when strange light shines through it?

I've always noticed odd refractions of light,
the way the shadow of a fountain dances & seethes.
Like my eyes are giggling
or experiencing some sort of hiccough.

Light is a funny thing.
Don't you wonder what its agenda is?
Why it follows the ethics of science
when deciding what to reveal...

the Dignity of Work (4/17)

Joints sparked nostalgic
by tragedies personal & professional,
My bones keep cracking
with the weight of the words
"the dignity of work".

as I experience it,
is a rectangular number,
in a rectangular box,
on a rectangular piece of paper
waiting in the rectangular mouth of an envelope.

When I hear those words about
work and dignity
I feel my joints like wet gunpowder
My bones detached with edges perforated.

Under this sort of dignity
life becomes a series of
If; then

Monday, April 16, 2012


Today I practiced my best learned habit.
Overzealous concerns
about money and my body
poured together in a dizzying display
of conflict and gore.
My eyelids droop
at the behest of these two uncomfortable neighbors.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Post-biking One-liner

My joints are screaming in a powerful course of the day I conquered.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Freewriting in the Sculpture Park

After turning on the bluetooth
I bend down my neck,
and push the letters like pedals beneath my fingers.

In high afternoon
the sunlight is too violent on the water.
Can't look at it all directly
I need wide-framed sunglasses & sideways glances
I need a toothpick to carve the last of winter from between my wisdom teeth.

I stopped to think a thought
& got lost in the fabric of a swaying dress.

Friday, April 13, 2012


This spring I am looking to get a sunburn on my neck, have pollen gather in my mouth; I'm looking to grow a flower in my throat. I want steam to rise when I tear my helemt off. Happily, I am becoming more and more comfortable with the damp residue of hillclimbing. I've been selecting layers for sweating in and having youngish, impratical thoughts about casual sex. the kind you have in 7th grade, the ones that made you giggle with shock & lonely embarassment. This spring I am looking forward to the dull ache of pushing my spokes past too many miles. I am ready to soak in the tub for reasons other than warmth. I am ready for my worries to lift away like fat bumble bees. This spring I am looking forawrd to engaging in pains quite delightful.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Two unfinished pieces from class (for 4/11 and for TODAY!)

Chthonic Voice

My voice is in the earth
My voice has demonstrated in laughter and despair
a spelunking depth & vivacity
that would rival the sunken tale of Kubla Khan.

My voice is in the earth.
It's got sound-sensitive skin
like the webbed ears of the bat
that keep its company.
The bats slather screeches
on its chords
my voice is well camouflaged in muck and soil.

My voice is in the earth.
Hibernating the toxins away.
waiting for the weeds of apology to grow themselves away,
waiting for the deprecating syllables to break
& become more usable soil.

My voice is in the earth,
you can use a metal detector
to find the most condensed deposits of meaning.
Dig them up,
wipe away the dirt,
shine them.
Show them to your friends
Tell them your trophy is actually a part of someone's soul.

But that is getting the mythology wrong.
Those are just my favorite collections of elements.
I pooled the sounds there for finding.
So please
I invite you,
hover over me
waiting for detection,
my voice is in the earth.


In the museum of the body
the heart is the most staggering of bio-mechanical marvels.
It's the Mona Lisa of the our soft organ world,
because it is and can so often
be stolen.

Although not the oldest piece in our collection (that would be the digestive tract),
nor the softest (that would be the liver),
nor the most sensitive (that would be the tissue on your lips and genitals),
it is perhaps the most often damaged organ;
the piece of the machine
that is susceptible to the widest array of possible pains inflicted.

It is important to note that because of the high sensitivity
the heart has developed both
marathonish endurance for painful activity
& an incredible resilience seen nowhere else in the body.

The four chambers of the architecture
was designed specifically
so the organ can support itself
when one of its four rooms have been
occupied by dangerous intents.
A heart with four intentions will never fold or break,
it can only be bruised.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Gender In My Body (written 4/10)

I am not alway certain what I am.
I wane.
I wax.
I want to be something that is not femme or butch,
but I'm not sure how to build it.
I want to find a beautiful way of being.
I want to articulate all of this beauty in my body
which is so potent

I need to paint with a brush in my mouth.
I am mouthing the colors,

with shapes indistinct and only slightly glyphic,my canvas is giggling wildly green and orange.

I want to be broad shoulders and big squishable tits
I want to be swopping tender sockected hips,
hard curves packed with horsepower,
I want to stride like a cowboy,
I want to stride like a strumpet,
I want to stride like 4th grader on field day
footsteps full of popsicle laughter.

Fuck feminine
fuck masculine.
I am not a tomboy
my gender presentation is squishier that.
I am part freckled farmboy,
part sparkling debutante lips drawn down red and simulating you-know-what.
I want to be a rusty old tomcat
so that when I arch my back and stick my ass in the air
it is a sign of my physical prowess and the relaxed way this body takes up space.

Once someone told me I seemed to be some sort of radical femme-bot
I told them that it was a chassis I could pull off
like a suit jacket or
a skirt with an elastic waistband.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Your Body is Not a Temple

I once had a lover tell me
"Your body is a temple."
He was wrong.
My legs are not pillars
my spine is not a stack of altars
or a series of benches waiting for piled up salvation.
My teeth are not stained glass windows
My body is not storage for the glorified relics of your partron saints
My body's caverns will not tolerate
the crowding of innocent voices.
I am not a house for continual coming and going.

He was wrong.
My body is not a temple.
My body is a religion.
My body is up for interpretation.
My body demands rituals
physical and otherwise.

My body demands that
patellas know the grooves of my name.
My body circulates parables
instead of blood.
Clotted meaning swings my heart harder than church bells.
My body is a collection of unstable elements.
My body is not a temple.

Sunday, April 8, 2012


Let's shoot the moon,
together make a slingshot against the odds,
power ourselves with the flowers exploding,
feed our engines with the pigments deepening.

I harbor the husk of previous seasons
itchy in my throat.
In the spring sighs
begin to lighten
and gather slight harkenings toward melody.

Let's shoot that moon,
break it open its craters
like an egg on the corner of our countertop.
We'll combine our hands into rocket ship algorithms
and take our chances on this most serindipitouds of seasons.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Bathing After a Ride

I am pearling
silt gritty in in the mouth of a mollusk
A tide repeats
washing knee to hip socket
muscles and sinews
hot in the washing water.

Friday, April 6, 2012


Today I am basking in the idea of sunlight.
Like a theoretical cat
I am learning how to be many places at once
learning to harbor dissonace in the softer parts of my being.
I am jointed together flexibilities untold.

Within the human body there are four kinds of motion possible
the same concept polarized by compress and release;
the fourth motion doesn't even have a name
it requires floating bones
rounded elbow petals,
and pebbles attached to the wrist.

Thursday, April 5, 2012


In the middle of everywhere
you awake
at quarter to 5
birds already dampening down the darkness.

The churning furnace opens it's throat
and belches in harmony with the jet over head.
looping dreams & notions together like a paper chain
words lost with each closing circle,
rounding out softer and softer
until I can't even hear my own breath anymore.

This is a dream
whose name you are already forgetting
hold tight it's non-being to your chest
feel it soften and thump
like thunder trapped a mountain range away

Wednesday, April 4, 2012


With fingers peeling and a cool breeze winding up my skirt
I scuttle around the unexplored nieghbohoods of Seattle,
pump my pedals in the shadow of I-90
before she skips across the water.
The sun is brash like summer.
I can just about feel the possibility of burn on my skin,
--impossible in so young a spring.
A gust pushes me back
I push the pedals harder
and celebrate my grim I told you so.

The gaps between my sleeves and gloves are still too much to handle
I never trust the weather in Seattle,
it is too safe a topic of conversation.

To keep from chattering nervously
and to keep my mouth warm
I hum, sing, scat a little bicycle song,
I am shivering and sweating
like the way your body does while fucking.

Cold and hot take up residnece in seperate territories of my body
there are some neighborhood where the temperatures mesh
and those are the nicest for living in

After I arrive
I look up all the neighborhoods
and let my fingers draw my routes upon them.

yesterday's pantoum (written in class)

Bearing Witness

Carnage fresh & drying in my mind's eye,
I have borne witness.
My eyes forced canvases for trauma,
I lodge those twinges between my lungs.

I have borne witness,
watched my sister's friends stick their fingers in her heart.
I lodge those twinges between my lungs
and tell her she's better than that.

Watched my sister's friends stick their fingers in her heart,
& whispered to myself "It's a good thing I'm assertive."
& I tell her she's better than that,
making sure the consolation heals on both sides.

& whispering to myself "it's a good thing I'm assertive."
I peel my friend from the arms that caused her rupture,
making sure the consolation heals on both sides
The safety recedes

I try to peel my friend from the arms that caused her rupture,
my eyes forced canvases for trauma,
the safety recedes
carnage fresh & drying in my mind's eye.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Getting a late start on Napowrimo

I am a constant interruption,
Haltingly my body ride on the hoof beats of apology

If it's not right I'll let you talk over me
because someone once told me
about how oppressive my voice can be
and ever since
my lips flinching has become an intrusion.

I worry about what is expected
not like the old echo
you see
you say

Now I just don't know
when my moment is coming
like to only person at the bus stop
without earbuds & an iphone
I don't know when it is coming.

My body in an interruption
like a ship creaking across an alien sea,
my rib cage groans
& I let the conversation wash
salty & foreign
through the waxy cracks on either side of my skull.

Poised and indistinct,
the rules of conversation
laugh like wind chimes coughing up April
with too much enthusiasm,
as whatever personal anecdote curdles
& the awkward burbles on my belly.

I watched her
use her elbows as a metronome.

Monday, March 19, 2012

To My Red Rust-honey:

I missed you all those months
you hung in the dark of my parents shed
I wanted to tell you:
you are so much more than a forgotten frisbee or broken roller skates.

I want you to know that everybody compliments your saddle
with words like classic and gorgeous.
You've got me habitually tucking my laces in.
The day won't even start without a cuffed pant leg.

Yesterday I gave you hustle
and we whistled though all of the lights.
In south SoDo
when we whizzed over the pavement gaping
and the steel throated railroad tracks
I could hear your spokes buzzing and fuzzing and showing off their integrity.
Your mousy calls let me know when you need love
& where to apply the appropriate fluids,
I'll need to grease you soon.

I know the rain might get you down
but I am here for you
my lovely unnamed frame.
Your rust spots are just freckles
absorbed from the only kind of sun this gray battered city knows
I love you vermilion.
I love you when your churning parts fall through.
I love you even when my stupid hands can't fix everything.
I love you fenderless
and rain and ruble dusting my chin without apology.
When you spin grit into my mouth
you let me know that the street is still beneath me.

Perched precarious
I push your balanced propulsion down and down and down.
Your return motions tenfold like the hollow magic of moon gravity.
My calves are starting to resemble rockets
and that nook between my ass and hip
(you know the place)
it's aching in the shape of movements we make together

You've spun a history into my muscles
built up lactic acid releasing in tensioned patterns spinning
my body is a geography of all the slopes we've scaled and plummeted.

I push
you carry
I push
you carry.
together we will fly down to the thick of it.

I've been making time to love you every day this week
you dizzy me with spinning spinning spinning
I am wet with the journey of us,
my darling red rust-honey.

I dream of you asleep in the basement,
not laying down but tilted slightly
front wheel cocked,
sleeping on the sly
like a glittering red sentinel
your angled repose calls to me
dreams spinning up through the floorboards whispering "ride ride ride"

Friday, February 3, 2012

"'re tired, you're poor"

Meet me in the margins
bring your world-weary fingers;
bring me your smile 12 hours old;
bring your favorite copy of your favorite book
the corners folded down.
Point me to the passages you have edited yourself.

We'll pull up raw full stops.
Make jagged our most precious sentences.
We'll dress down all our paradigms
and exchange naked stares over coffee.

Bring your bluffing nicotine fingers
sling me your coffee stained witticisms
Meet me in the margins and we'll dance down the hierarchies
pressure our light though each textual prism.
We'll make the angled words less comfortable

I've seen those stark distinctions cut with horizontal certainty
I've seen them hold you hostage by your own compassion
And I saw the way you never gave in.

Meet me in the margins.
Find me there,
all sputtering syllables and jellyfish skin
and I will sting you one thousand briny confessions:

    I love the way that it itches & aches
    when I want to look at everything
    But my eyes aren't small enough;
    & I think I want a microscope instead of a mouth;
    I want to listen better;
    I'd like to listen like a hawk in flight;
    I wanna listen like a rainstorm;
    I want to listen the way the Arizona desert
    opens her mouth to monsoon season.

I need a place to try out my mouth,
I have a million little teeth in my brain
that I am just beginning to call ideas.
a thousand plankton sized mobius membranes
all teething with spring loaded electrical charges.
My thoughts are what they mean when they say the words “live wire”.

So please,
open those margins to possibility of soldering circuits.
I know that you're crackling too.

Meet me in the margins
lean your voice against my voice.
I promise to cherish your vulnerability
to hold open a hollow for your wild body of dreams.

So if you can,
please meet me in the margins
and we'll soothe our mutual wounds.
Let's press together the holes in our shoes.
feel the miles seep together
matching our distance with journeys overlapping.