sometimes you get what you wish for.
brain-flaying conversation
precision of metaphor,
that elegant scalpel…

bone-flash of

thread to thickening
cord (that was your wordchild,

jewelry I
stole for this poem)

out of body,
where soul embraces

if you are not here, nothing grows.

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I am with.

If you are not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity. My words tangle and knot up.

How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.

When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,
dig a way out through the bottom to the ocean.
There is a secret medicine given only to those
who hurt so hard they cannot hope.

The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.

Look as long as you can at the friend you love,
no matter whether that friend is moving away from you,
or coming back towards you.

My Worst Habit – Rumi (trans Coleman Barks)


permanently blue

HERE’s some stuff.



Oh I wrote this on an airplane and myGAH does it EVER look EMO(oooooo).  Seriously I have not progressed at all since high school, it’s official.

Whaddayagonnado.  The heart pours out, regardless.  I always have someone in mind when I write in 2nd person.



Holla at me if you got latent emo tendencies

I was spitting nails before we fell into it, maybe I still am.  Have you ever seen someone die from a nail gun?  There isn’t anywhere horror movies won’t go but we both know
you don’t watch them so..

I have a past that still isn’t house trained, you dare to let him uncaged?

I have too many teeth for you.   Not like pearls still suckling on the oyster,
like whatever ends up killing you in your sleep,
like a gift from an enemy – the way he smiles when he rings the doorbell,
like waking up to discover all the trees are gone, the way the sun laughs at you then.

Just exactly like how angry God gets at you when you only pray to him during airplane turbulence, or when your aunt gets cancer.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.
no, these teeth are mine, all mine.  Unholy mess of chaos, it’s too much to ask you to stay for the ending.

Trapped in each others gravity, too selfish to let you go, too selfish by



Yo I don’t even care WHAT this is, I haven’t written anything in MONTHS. I mean anything from that deep subconscious everything-terrifies me realm. you know.

Getting too used to Night Shifts (it’s 4AM, no sleep)

A mile is a lot farther when you don’t have feet. What did people do before airplanes? I guess horizons meant more. There were some things that were unimaginable.

I know a man without feet. Sometimes he asks the aides to clip his toenails, and then laughs at them. He went to a meeting once (regarding whether he was satisfied with his care). He didn’t talk for those 30 minutes. Just sang. “My liiiiiiitle buckarooooooooooo.” Bitterness//absent, he’s a miracle like the kind that make you believe in God again.

His horizons though. I’ve been more of a caged bird than him (yeah that time I don’t talk about). You can almost never escape yourself, and I’d feel foolish for trying, but then again I used to be in that business, trying as a full time job, no benefits, no retirement plan.

Lately .. Getting these bars to mutate into something though.

Sometimes I can see the sun from here. Sometimes I can hear the clouds.


Too Late

You know if I was born just slightly earlier (just a thousand years or so)… I could have been a mystic instead of labeled bipolar during my manic breakdown.

This is Rumi’s poetry.  Still hits me like my genetics did, Road to Damascus blinding light-blade.  What does it say about you when you evolve and it puts you in the mental hospital?




Man I really MISS being able to write.  I really just don’t anymore and that is so sad.  Anyways I read through all my journals from college (except the last year) and dang.  I miss writing.

Here is something 3 years old.  So glad I finally found someone worth being a happy lovestruck idiot for.


For some people love means never being alone on Valentines day, maiming hearts into trees with pocketknives. For me love is this unattainable gold pot at the end of a rainbow tangled with hints of particularly putrid shades of browns and greens, you know, like a couch from the seventies… this is for all the ugly sofas in my life, you know who you are.  This is for the the end I’m still waiting for even though I’m pretty sure it’s probably a myth or at least guarded by a heavily armored leprechaun named commitment-phobia

This is for everyone who taught me what love isn’t.

For every misstep on the ladder to happiness that left me with skinned knees and metaphorically knocked out teeth and for every time I doggedly struggled my way back up. I’ve lived my life like a romantic sitcom, dining on cliche-ridden late nights and so many cheesy pickup lines I give thanks to Cupid every day that I’m not lactose intolerant.

This is for all the men I can’t have, won’t have, have had, or taste bad. This is for all the Indians who won’t date me because I’m not what an arranged marriage looks like, and this is for when I told you I didn’t want to marry you anyways and I think that was probably the clearest definition of sour grapes that I’ve ever smashed into wine. This is for your mistaken notion that you are allowed to friendzone me two days after I cook for you.

This is for the oh-em-gee preteen-style butterflies that grew legs and feet and began to brutally kick at my heart instead of flutter. Every over-dramatic, he’s-so-bad-for-me and all the good advice I ignored. I still can’t stomach bitterness, I front like I’m a jaded skeptic but I can never quite pass as one, I will always be the happy lovestruck idiot in the room.

I’ve pretended I’m not being manipulated for so long that it’s started to not matter either way.  I still refuse to believe those compliments were scripted even with his teleprompter smiles still echoing through my brain like the first time I realized that all my grandmother’s decorative fruit was really just plastic. My veins pulse to the tune of every lie I can’t let go of, starting with when you told me you’d always be around, waiting, like your heart was just gonna lie around on a shelf with the Christmas decorations until I felt like picking it up again.

This is for hearts that refuse to give up, catch up, or shut up. This is for the delirious crash and burn I’ve been chasing since before you met me. This is for the one who stuck around even when I wouldn’t sleep with him and just kept saying “BAM, pregnant” whenever he mentioned it.

This is for love, real and imagined. Well in my case pretty much always imagined. This is for those of us too stupid to tell the difference, rocking enough poor judgment to fill a hallmark card store. This is for mistakes and refusing to acknowledge or learn from them.

This is for the the hook line and sinker crowd.

This is for living, life, flammability, and the pursuit.

Stumble on.

Go. Brain spew.

I stayed in the town you’re supposed to leave when you graduate.  I’m still here. Surrounded by college kids, so, so, out of place.

I know it’s in my power to leave.  Got excuses, but let’s be serious, there’s nothing real keeping me here.

Most of the people I am comfortable with have been gone for a long time.

I feel so lonely sometimes. 

I miss the hardcore talks.  What can I do?  Trust does take time to build up, or maybe it’s just chance that you’ll meet anyone you can give your brain to and know it won’t get regurgitated up backwards.  GET ME.  Just, understand… I feel like I’m on the moon desperately sending my radio signals into the expanse of nothingness.  Hear. Me.  It’s this dance when you meet new people, not unlike flirting but how long does it take to get below surface talk.    How do I take you there without making you crazy.  This is why people do drugs together.  Smoke together.  I HATE the inanities of small talk… that hasn’t changed.

I used to really use getting physical as a way to get behind all the boring I-don’t-know-you-yet crap.  Easy for me to realize that now that I am celibate by long distance.

Ayya he should be here making everything better.

(I should know. How to make everything better for myself. )

Solo Pienso en Ti

Sanskrit has ninety-six words for love; ancient Persian has eighty, Greek three, and English only one. This is indicative of the poverty of awareness or emphasis that we give to that tremendously important realm of feeling.

Eskimos have thirty words for snow, because it is a life-and death matter to them to have exact information about the element they live with so intimately.

If we had a vocabulary of thirty words for love … we would immediately be richer and more intelligent in this human element so close to our heart.

An Eskimo probably would die of clumsiness if he had only one word for snow; we are close to dying of loneliness because we have only one word for love.

Of all the Western languages, English may be the most lacking when it come to feeling.

-Robert Johnson
The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden

I’m sorry about the default thumbnail for this video.  I promise there’s no butts in this video.  I don’t know how to change it.