Inner City Nursing Homes.

She’s not even that old
Could be my mother, but
we are friends.


(Get out you fuckin’ bitch)

Bruce Springsteen on channel 4

(He’s getting old, right?)
Here try some milk

(I haekd elaie tje)

OKAY. Fine. I’ll take it out then.

It’s fine.

-bed-ridden one-way mirror, red-faced glass-full of
the rage I’ve seen in myself,

swear someone has been pouring me more lately.
Mental notes on how to avoid becoming this.


I like hyphens and parentheses.  If you can’t get down with that… you know where the exit is.

Also. hm.  Nothing.  Leaving my comfort zone this weekend.  Afro-Latin Vegas.  New dance style.  Tryna force my body to do things it doesn’t currently have knowledge of.

I love Aamir Khan.  One time my boyfriend and I went to Qutub Minar and it was exactly like this.   Except he’s not that freakin creepy.

Torpid and Torrid are different words: take note p.

walking into my apartment like excuse me, I have a poem on a napkin that needs to incubate STAT.  I have a torrid love affair with hyphens and parenthesis, so much so that I probably couldn’t produce poetry without them.

Word of the day:

mentally or physically inactive; lethargic.


the acrobatics of

distance is commendable
capital C.
Applause healthier than
raised eyebrows

(but not like
performing soul-grabs with
the skin of your teeth

gently prying the shell
to find
pulsing inside,
something built for sky
sporadically air-fed and

things that are death defying:
whatever we aren’t permitted
to even

I took this poem in a far more vague and far less sexual direction than the napkin foretold.  I don’t know if it should have incubated more :/

Also how did The Magnetic Fields never get big? Life is weird. According to an old lady at work, I am also.  I work in 8.6 hours.  Which means I have .6 to fall asleep so let me please go remake my bed’s acquaintance thank YOU.

In love with your teeth.

Wish we would have grown up to
eat blank slates instead of
compass blades.

All actuality:
too distrustful for nightfall,
too sober for nostalgia.

the curse of the rational:
we inhale that, exhale the
half-contentment of
pointed decree.

wariness as a virtue looks like
hands clutched to brain matter
fingers tapping L-I-A-R
onto earlobes

Certainty is as fragile as this:
we are us, everyone
else is




Can we just talk about how Melanie Martinez has the crazy that Lily Allen was always (is) lacking?

It’s pure vs. straightjacket and I don’t know whether I love it or I’m too freaked out to sleep. Maybe both.

Or maybe more like…. raw vs. polished.  I wanna believe that level of animalistic is not calculated and I think I almost can.

This is the problem with being blind to most pop culture… Did NOT KNOW she was on The Voice.

Think I’m the last to have heard of her.  I mean yeah, this summer I heard “Soap” as a Kizomba remix, and that was the FIRST TIME I heard any of her stuff.

Heard Mrs. Potato Head on the radio today which prompted a glut of youtubing.  I’m a big wimp when it comes to things like watching people’s flesh get cut into which is why I didn’t post that video.

Alright you know what.  You have it.  But don’t say I didn’t warn you that people are low-key getting their flesh cut up.

I was going to post the Soap/Training Wheels double feature, which you can certainly find on the interwebs if you’d still like to see.  WARNING: SWEARS.  I think none of my family reads this blog but I always plug a warning for em.

Thoughts on this poem are mixed.

Bar Napkin, Location Unknown.

still pushing that merry-go-round,
headspin chaos, birth to death inevitability sped up by
cigarette smoke and coffee.

what the water makes rocks into, our bones are
that cliff
fragmenting vermilion in the afterlight

seagulls make food from trash,
we adhere to the opposite philosophy (or anyway, our

we are the dimly lit bar
dark corner miracle slowly
winding our way

to the end.


set my thoughts on a track against winter, the handcuffs of death-brain still don’t qualify as a finish line.

It’s only summer in my mind when I can feel it on my face, remember the mania that somehow gave us the hottest winter on record, devoid of ice, think I fashioned myself as weather god, goddess, etc.

Better to burn than this coma.

There is an avoidance, a withdrawal, that
feels like a blanket at first and turns into
suffocation later.

Early January is the closest we come to describing this,
this great Sickness of the North.

A body at rest, doesn’t move enough to distract the brain.

What is “awake.”

The last conversation we had.  Laughing visible in the air, white-frost defiant, that is love, Small “L” maybe, but still.

What is “asleep”
When the bed looks better than the sky, so you build your castle there



I’ll tell you a secret.
Music doesn’t make me feel better like it used to.

But you can try your luck:

whoops.  Just got some mad music coming through on the youtube autoplay,  maybe actually does make things better.  Will post as we move forward.


possibly I am not happy unless I have a series of minor crises to disentangle.. All I do during the good times is wait for trouble, or pretend to see it in the clouds, the opposite of a castle, waterlogged cardboard box-thoughts, skewed reality.

When I was younger I thought “it’s all downhill from here” meant something good, like in sledding after you’ve trudged to the top. And now the deity in my internet is saying it can mean that the bad times are either over or just starting or ( potentially both…)

I crave the easy and comfortable but my mind turns traitor against my body when I finally arrive there.

Somewhere along the line I taught myself that I wasn’t allowed to relax.

11/22/63 is a book by Stephen King that I am currently reading.  Also. A show on Huuulu? I believe.

It’s good.  DUhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  It’s Stephen King, so, like a Thomas Kinkade painting, you pretty much know what you’re in for.  But the unexpected is still unexpected.  Unlike  Thomas Kinkade who doesn’t put evil clowns and time travel into his paintings.  :/  Some would say, unfortunately..

Conversations with the elderly #535

Her:  What are you going back to school for?

Me:  Sign language!

Her: What?

Me:  Sign Language, you know, so I can talk to deaf people..


Homegirl thought I was going back for Necromancy or Séance Management or something. Hah. Now that I type it out it doesn’t look like much, but we laughed for a while.

I need some new music… but too lazy to hunt for it bow-and-arrow style… I  need it spoon-fed, baby food, applesauce messy ear-drip.  I think babies are like…. the best dancers, bruh I really do.  Wild up that stroller, I see you.   My kids are gonna dance like maniacs.

When I wrote this poetry I was in a weird mood so it’s been floating till my soul could exit deep space.

In a mood where this looks better, because I’m on a magical dance high, just got back from tearing it up. (Addis Ababa: Wednesday nights in Minneapolis.  Hit that.)

I also have ONE MORE POEM TO GIFT YOU WITH. But you’ll have to wait for that ish.  This one’s first.  Happy New year.

It wasn’t meant to be about the new year, it was ink spew.  But that’s what it looks like to me now.  You know I gotta try to tie things together for you guys. MuAH ❤




Death by
concrete – the mesmerising slow-grab of

Upwards a centrifuge of stars,
like the heralding of some
minor goddess.

Certainty tastes like
gravity, to float untethered,
the end of conviction.

The beginning of


“I would be very pleased to hear your opinion!”

Great Aunt emailed me asking why Indians are distrustful of “conversion”.  (Oh dear, what will we do when my two families finally crash into each other)

OY. I am NOT TRYNA CONVERT my Indian half of the family. But I didn’t open up that can of worms.

Here is the unsent second half of the reply email.  It’s kinda all over the place hence why I deleted it in the interest of coherency.  Still gotta prepare a powerpoint for the fundies of my family.  hah.

My boyfriend’s family doesn’t think about conversion much, I don’t think they have thoughts on it either way… My mother in law is really happy I’m “from a family with morals”.

But I do have somewhat different beliefs on Hell than my family which make me uninterested in converting anyone. I think Jesus was sent to teach us how to love, not just as a get-out-of-hell free card. And I don’t think he’s going to punish anyone for not being taught that they need to pray a certain prayer.

When I was in India the second time I visited a Sikh temple. They serve a free meal all day long, it being a part of their religion to feed the poor and anyone else who wants a meal. The servers of the food were so kind. So many people in the temple that day. It was such a calm and quiet place. And in my mind I just imagined God funneling all these people into an eternity of torture. The nice old man telling me the tea was very hot, so I should be careful. Ayya it brings me to tears.

I think Jesus recognizes love more than he recognizes someone “praying the prayer” and I believe putting your faith in love is the exact same as following Jesus. I don’t know how I got so lucky as to meet a man who is so kind and compassionate. I can’t believe there are real human beings who are this kind and compassionate.

I do believe that everything will become clear in time. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

“Beloved, let us love one another, because love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is how God’s love was revealed among us: God sent His one and only Son into the world, so that we might live through Him.…” – 1 John 4:8

Notice how I say “I think” and “I believe” in an effort to not challenge her deeply held convictions.  True Christians never do the same for me *sigh*.    Also…. feels like I need to continuously assert that I STILL LOVE JESUS YOU GUYS.   Like if I don’t my whole family will cry.