You’re a candle in a dark room
A proud defiance of the way you’re expected to be
Perceived by many, understood by few
Your persistence is unlike anything I’ve ever known
How do you fit such tenacity inside of you?
Your honesty, a cool spring in humid heat
The love that pours out of you is warm and sweet
Your hate is something I hope I never taste
Truthfully, I know it in my heart, I was made for you
I Guess This Is It Now
Forever after it ended wouldn’t
have been slow. Enough. My
muse, my everything-even-after.
Even after, forever is so slow.
Virginia At The Ballet
Woolf works in a way
because, about this life, we can say
so many overlapping, aching waves.
Each tendu a laser, each word a ray.
—after American Ballet Theatre’s performance of Wayne McGregor’s Woolf Works—
Heel Strike Hits Hard Today
My ovaries feel like peanuts
Popping in my pelvis.
Being a woman is so very,
Very weird.
Collect
Chinatown, Manhattan
Subway rabbits.
Pigeons and bread.
Whisker vase.
Hand-pulled noodle.
you float in the shadow of Al Capone’s last home,
largest natural island in California’s San Francisco Bay,
a blessing to our choppy freezing Pacific,
a candle of promise,
a stone’s throw to freedom,
an island harboring souls who lost in a fight to survive,
some legit, some wrong place wrong time,
some turning a cheek to the harsh smack of Capitalism,
some born on the wrong side of the tracks,
some caught in a hobo’s Great Depression dream,
some reaching for the gold ring as the merry-go-round goes round and round
and the organ plays ‘life is just a dream!’
Miwoks
kicked off their Angel Island,
Chinese hard labor contributed to the coffers of railroad millionaires,
forcing incarcerated space for WWII Japanese prisoners,
Japanese precision made money for the Man,
as they sought refuge and swore not to organize in Solidarity
But the Big Guys don’t fall easy,
privilege has taught them gluttonous getting is never enough,
the Miwok Angels
were kicked off their island,
the ones who knew how to live respectfully with nature and
proliferate their land
We shame those who appear different,
Say they are wet behind the ears,
immigrants were simply seeking a future
not an Angel Island Prison
Angel Island you have earned your reputation
as
Ellis Island of the West
This country is fucked
I stand in line at Penn Station, order my chicken teriyaki
The man asks if the debate is tonight
I’m pretty guarded about this stuff anymore
You never know when someone’s gonna follow you home
Then he says,
“Are these really our best options?”
We both laugh
And slowly stop because it’s terrifying
I pull out the Florence Y’alls schedule and watch the hockey on the TV
As I wait to hear my name
I predict a low turnout
I predict a firestorm
This really doesn’t matter anymore
It’s a reality show
And we are all losing
A crumple at the base of your spine,
my headphones came with glue to keep them in my ears
at least you would think so if you watched me sleep at night
where I lay, an unconscious concert plays
after the encore, my brain rings like an alarm clock in the morning
no more than the room across the hall shakes at night
how you sleep is how you breathe
and when I wake, I am breathless, deaf, and bothered
I move my feet to catch the bus,
only to stuff my ears on the way to school
I fear one day the volume button may break
what a loud night that will be
I’m detached from my hometown,
no parents, no house, no relatives
just grand and greatgrand graves
But those gossamer threads still pull
so I sign up for my reunion
not expecting much
Then texts and voicemails–
rarely seen friends are coming,
and ask“Will you be there too?”
And, without warning,
I’ve time traveled,
back to burning cigarettes,
empty beer bottles
(oh, wait, we gave those up)
driving endlessly through dark nights
(who can see clearly anymore at night?)
But the laughter, , the history
is in those messages and voicemails,
And will be there
when we meet
in our hometown.
I don’t understand how building community isn’t manipulating you all
into being there for me when I need
someone. I don’t understand how you all
could possibly see the real me or
even expect to see the real me when I
don’t know who I am or I refuse to see
who I am because I am too ugly & cruel & not a
good person & not who I am & maybe it’s not possible for
me to act out of compassion & like
did you do something kind to manipulate someone?
Isn’t that what we all do? We don’t want to be alone so we be who we need to be to be with people?
People manipulate each other to survive.
I thought that’s what we all were doing. How are you doing it, then?
