Slutty Office Space

with a snake for a spinal cord,
I weave through the professional world
of cubicle ant colonies,
flicking my tongue for the taste
of queen.

hickies stashed beneath my blazer,
mischievously scented thighs,
in economic speak: the most sensible
return of investment. here,
in the dripping maze
of monotony

I mean business.

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Giggling in a gurney

within one microcosmic glimmer of perfection

could anyone truly understand the ship wreck which is my mind?

like a moon whose shadow wanes as it grows,

i run away from the puzzling shape of humans

like a fish out of water

but on steroids.

From the future, looking in

Somehow, the rain becomes a flood
and you, the trigger of the pulse
of my whimsical world
are muddled beneath the steady
cadence of rain drops + umbrellas.

i’m left to wonder
over the pyramid of time
when we lived, embraced
the rain with open eyes
and let it wash upon
our dirty and broken
young hearts.

forgive me, i’m trying
to treat an addiction that burns
with an impulse so strong
it once carried me like a parachute soldier
across the ocean, through farmlands,

into a cacaphonous and glorious muck. new orleans, where the passion is so endless

it’s frightening.

without you, i’m a ghost walking a tight rope.

a movie without a script,

free to stumble and fall

without consequence.

my grandma plays the ukulele

although she doesn’t yet know the strings,
she walks along the beach every morning
at seven o’clock sharp,
never looking for seashells,
always singing about the sun…

old toes barefoot on sand
in a crisply washed, fruity sundress
that billows like a kite

cheerfully anchored to the shore
with books of poetry
and index cards of homemade recipes
and fourty-minute phone calls with
strange aunts who live in Michigan

she cannot sing well but joins
the ukulele circle every morning
along the beach, and she’s taking lessons
starting this June to learn how to play,

but I swear, somehow she already knows
its sunny rhythm.

Tinder Drummer Boy

there is a small, missing chunk of skin
from my right ear that makes me
feel sorted like a meandering cattle.

i remember little, besides
the aftermath. lying underage
we met at your neighborhood bar
and i followed you drunken, half-witted
home to your punk rock basement
where you played drums
and the whole world
spun like a disco.

this was five years ago,
but i don’t forget
how i awoke: bloodless in heart,
earring ripped from cartilage,
confused where i am,
confused who he is,
confused how to find my train home,
a soul of a lost girl
flapping carelessly in the wind.

a dirty sheet in the center
of a metropolis.

from an unknown DC neighborhood,
i walked home, stopping halfway
to draw a sketch of drumsticks
in an otherwise empty notebook,
mourning a rhythm
much stronger than words–

undetectable poison

Flowers and coal dust at Pithauria coal mine, Jharkhand, India. From the series The Coal Cycle Wallahs, 2009planted seeds in my psyche
that seeped deep through
everything once clear
and bright. a rose in a coal mine,
I shriveled in sincere denial,
and rationalized my inability
to feel the sun. i fell in love anyway.
with your turbulence, i threw dreams away
like dirty white flags, and laid awake
listening to the fucked up rhythm
of my heart. i fell in love anyway.
with the warped butterfly
that flapped its wings and left me
in a pile of dirt to be washed
away, anonymously
in the ocean:

my heart now misses its life raft.