Sunday, July 16, 2017


3 years on
and still,
eating oranges on your porch,
and the slant of the sun off the water

I wonder if you remember,
laughing at the flowers I picked.
(you called them weeds)
but they still sat in water
on your kitchen table

that summer was so hot
the nights, too
especially the first

do you remember?

it’s strange to think about,

that we almost bought a house
I remember, your eyes, when we pulled up the carpet,
and saw the oak,
dusty, but there

and the weight of your hand
on the small of my back

in Discovery Bay, when we met,
that last time,

for a beer.

3 years on, and still

Thursday, January 29, 2015


How do you write? When the words stop, at the edge of jagged fingertips, poised just so over the keyboard? To force it out is unfair, and would create an inauthentic account of the blistery emptiness that has resided inside for some time.

I’m unable to create something of nothing, and I imagine I’ve been filled with nothing over the last while. My words are always formed because of this inability to keep my emotions intact, to keep them inside. And they poured from me, in prose, and rhymes, and profanity. In lust and love. To keep everything inside would be unthinkable, and I’d drown, in the words. I can imagine them coating my throat, sticky on my teeth, falling over one another to escape.

And now the stark realization that I have nothing. I have nothing. My entire self worth has resided in the thoughts of others. And now I must create something solely from myself. It’s terrifying. What if I open my mouth, and nothing ever comes out again?

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

nothing to say (so much)

“why don’t you ever write about me?”

you wondered aloud,
one night, in july
eyes trained above my head
whisky-heavy breath
not quite reaching my face

i tried to, 
you see,
but my hand ached,
pencil gripped tightly
as i searched for something to write

that i knew
would stay-

(you wouldn’t erase)

Sunday, March 16, 2014


He stands in front of me, his hair dark and soggy with shower water, sloppily combed to the side,  sliding his delicate hands over the random shit on my nightstand, nonchalantly. He has no boundaries- what is mine is his, and that is all he has ever known. Absentmindedly, he fingers the edge of one of the books I haven't yet finished, rests on my camera, and pauses for a split second before he raises it to his face. He aims his probing little eye through the finder, focuses on something across the room, and then sets the camera back down, with a sigh. His eyes meet mine. He isn’t embarrassed that I'm watching him so closely; he isn’t that self-aware yet. He stretches up, up, reaching his scrawny arms above his head and yawns, loudly. 

I catch a whiff of something, soapy, clean.

"Are you wearing deodorant?"

"Yes,"  he answers, matter-of-factly. "It makes me feel like a man."

Then he turns and skips out of the room, his spiderman pajama shirt tucked into the back of his underwear.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

your urgent matters

only a few weeks into
it (whatever it was)
you came home

reeking of  
stained, soured hours
and stale smoke,
from the road

twisted in your sheets
as the door slammed
your hello

you pushed your tongue
feverishly inside me,
and my lips split red
against my teeth

didn’t even notice
the wet pillow, or
the damp on my cheeks
when finally,

were through

(how did you not see?) 
that night,
even the flowers were bleeding

Thursday, December 5, 2013

can we just rewind

if only
you'd been
a one-night stand,
drenched in wine,
sweat soaked sheets in a peach-dusted dawn

just a hazy recollection of some
lustful, wasted night
where the morning fog
found you gone

Wednesday, December 4, 2013


Well. This was a bust. Fucking Mexico. I tried. Maybe not as hard as I could. I think I picked the wrong city, maybe. I don’t know.

Ohhhh where to next. Houston, eh gross, gag. Seattle. Port Angeles. Japan?

I think this experience completely burned me out on teaching.

For fucks sake, I didn’t even learn Spanish.


17 more days left. I don’t know if I should soak it in, or just sleep a lot so the time passes faster.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

the weight of you (me)

“It’s when someone else’s happiness depends on me- that’s when I find it hard to breathe.”

that’s what she said. that’s what she wrote. that’s what she sang, drenching every note with who gives a fucks and leave me alones.
in the mirror, smearing the fog away, it was hard to lie to herself. the fear of her happiness depending on someone else- that’s what really kept her at bay.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

but we found common ground, in our blood, in our sound

you whispered in the dark
about the things
    that break you

and all I could think
was how
are the things


make me

Saturday, September 28, 2013


burnt dust
seeps through the window,
slides against the curtain,

in la brisa
piano playing fingers
at the finish
de una canćion de amor

car siren wails,
incoherent spanish
drifts up

shadows still paint
the walls,

at 3 am

different room,
same thoughts

just mixed
with hindsight


tequila shots

for reference: let's talk about the weather

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

great expectations

when the glass was full,

i almost expected you
to flick it 
to the ground

and you did
with a twist 

of your wrist

i just didn't expect
to make 

walk on the pieces
barefoot and 

all because i don't need you to breathe

or be

Monday, September 23, 2013

timing (and maybe silver linings)

they flitted around,
like birds

his words

absorbed in
the dance of his hands,

i very nearly missed
the glance


Saturday, September 21, 2013

follow you where?

breathe you in

       c o u g h

you out

            need water
                               in a draught

not second-hand smoke

and fickle stories

       s o u t h

keep your cancer
to yourself

and your lyrics

                         in a box

drown them in drink

            whatever you goddamned need

 i'm not  y o u r s 
                                 to share  a n y m o r e

(following you down was a joke to you and your pocketfuls of smoke; nothing to see, it's all so fucking hazy)

Thursday, September 19, 2013

lest you forget

I'm pregnant. I let the words roll around my mouth, my tongue. It's yours and I'm pregnant. It sounded foreign. Pregnant. I'm pregnant and it's yours. How do you tell an almost stranger that you're carrying their child? I sat in my car, the heater blowing stale air at my face, no tears. The trees were bare, the ground cold, hard. An empty bird's nest sat, half undone, in the crook of a branch. Just sitting. Waiting.

Chiseled jaw line, hooded eyes. He was quiet, secretive. I'd met him at work. Our first date was at a nondescript college bar, one gray, grainy afternoon, only one month prior. Two nights later, we apparently hit the jackpot. Fuck. How did I do this to myself.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror. Waiting. His truck pulled into the lot, circled and parked. I was out of my car in an instant, walking across the spaces, dead leaves crunching under my step. He got out and looked up, confused for a second and then his face lit up, a smile spread across, his white, perfect teeth shone.

He crossed the remaining space between us and walked to me, looking at me with an expectant grin. Then he saw my face. And his changed.

What's wrong?

I just looked at him, the words I'd practiced frozen in my throat, not even making it to my tongue. I looked down at the bottle he was carrying. Jack Daniel's. It dawned on me that it was New Year's Eve. I looked up, the air icy against my hot cheeks, chafing, burning.

You're pregnant.

It wasn't a question. It just was. There. It was out. I let my breath out.

I looked at him, stared through him. Nodded.

The crack of his knees on the ground was like a gunshot. That sound told me everything. I turned towards my car, as he kneeled, dumbfounded, in the middle of the parking lot.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

checking in

Just checking in with the land of blog. I've been out of the loop, lately, but I just wanted you who subscribe and read to know that I'm not dead. Lots of overwhelming changes in my life, recently, and I've been slightly uninspired. Just bogged down.

swing of things....get it? get it? i'm funny.
I resigned from my first teaching job and accepted a job in Mexico, sold my house and just about every item in it, save my coffee maker, some mugs, and my clothes. Ok, and some books. I've been a bum, and currently, child and I are camping at my parent's house in Houston, waiting on our visas to come through, so we can get over to Durango. The school year actually started Monday, there, so I will be coming in late, which is daunting. Hopefully, we will be there within the next two weeks.

Hope you all are well. I will try to get back into the swing of things, soon.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

on being five

perched on the stoop,
in his ketchup-stained
batman suit
she shooed him out,
when that man pulled up
in his rusted-red toyoto
pick-up truck

counted ants, and
gingerly placed ritz cracker
crumbs in their path

wiped his nose
with the back of his hand,
lodged tiny missiles
at the cigarette-stuffed
dr. pepper can

stared hard
into the blood-stained sun,
and when it started to fade,
he closed his eyes

to the sounds
those sounds

from inside.

she was supposed to teach him how to tie his shoes today.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

seeing you

wearied, worn
smoke-thick nights
vaguely familiar chords
like memories,
your whisky-laced memoir
rips through me
like you aren't
the stranger
you are
but when,
the gritty strains
of dawn
the ashen shadows
from the wall,
i can almost see you then,
i can almost see it all

Monday, June 3, 2013

it reminds me

the color yellow,
it reminds me
of the mustard stain
on that old ranger’s shirt
(it eventually became mine)
that time
you caught a foul ball,
cheeks rosy and chaffed
from the wind
we snuck out,
giggling, like teenagers
on a first date
while Bibby was pitching,
to that drafty old ford
that was always out of gas
made it back inside
for the last inning
pretended not to notice
that couple who stared
(a few buttons were missing) 

when it’s almost raining,
but not quite
just a slow trickle,
gaining momentum,
it reminds me
of early mornings,
and your broken coffee pot,
how it would sputter
the grounds would float,
dark, like ants,
when you added cream
and i would turn up my nose,
and drink it black

i would sit in front of your stove
because the heater was broken
and read
while you worked intently
at your math

caught you staring
through the doorway,

i remember how you laughed
and laughed

(and laughed)

Sunday, June 2, 2013

silence is golden

porch whispers
at three in the morning
citronella candle smoke
burns sweetly in my nose
humid nights
and the sound of silence in the air
the reason i can't find the words
isn't because they aren't there
it's just they sometimes get frozen
by the intensity of your stare

the air around you is familiar now

Thursday, May 23, 2013

hot july moon, summer of 99

twisted the warm water
out of my tangled hair
threw my head back,
and giggled at Carrie
as we danced in the spinklers
those sultry, texas nights

our tiny bikinis covered
and nothing

my insides hiccupped
but, still
I pretended he wasn’t cruising by,
cold beer in the back,
one-pump gas-station town
Friday nights

he idled at the corner
and we skipped back inside

he’d be back tomorrow

maybe then,
I’d go for a drive

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

your words, they wreck me

she opens her mouth,
and diamonds fall out
early mornings at
the waffle house

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

brand new information

I've created another blog. Not because I'm deserting this one; the other one is for family and friends, and even former students, to follow Caden and me on our new adventures next year. We are moving to Mexico in August. Just accepted the position last night.  So I created a travel blog to document the whole process. I'm not connecting the two as this one is for more personal stuff, and I can cuss here. Only a few select people who know me in real life read this blog. I'm going to keep other one g-rated. Or try, at least.

Poetry-wise, I have several things to post, but they all need editing, and I haven't had time lately. I will try to post them soon. Miss all you lover-faces.  < ~~ new blog

I wonder if I'll finally be able to tan in Mexico?

Friday, April 26, 2013

the bay

contemplate my toes,
nails painted moonbeam black (are beams black?)
and the tops of my feet,
sunburned, smeared
with aloe grease,
and bits of sand,
grainy against raw skin.
laughter floats up,
answering voice is low,
somber, in drink

soured reek of seaweed,  
cloying in this heat
languishes in the twilight
and my damp,
salt soaked hair
sticks to the side
of my flushed cheeks
idly, i sip  
from a plastic
dixie cup
swish sweet white wine
through my teeth 

air conditioner,
rusted red, time- worn
blows, stale and chilly
hum muffled
by a clouded,
sliding glass door

weak strains
from the clock radio
Otis Redding sighs
in my ear
        I’ve been……. loooving you,
            for soo looong now
shamelessly bleeds
into the lull of the surf,
briny against the craggy,
jagged shore
muted mourning
of the sea gulls
wrenches me
from the inside out
devastatingly beautiful
in its gritty allure

In the summer, I take Caden to the gulf. Galveston Bay. Usually, it’s just the two of us. It’s one of my favorite places to go. I do realize it’s the redheaded stepchild of the beaches, but there’s something so enchanting , so alluring about its grit. The mess of seaweed, twisted, bunched on the beach. The ramshackle, salted wooden houses, wasting away- their ratty, threadbare curtains, a placid, slight movement in the dark windows. There are so many stories to be found, it seems, down each crumbling, broken road,  and each will eventually lead you down to the coarse, rocky beach. We stay at the Commodore. It’s old. Cheap. Brick walls. Faintly stained curtains. Sliding glass doors that don’t latch all the way, so a layer of salt coats the mirrors. I adore that hotel, because every room faces the ocean, and every room has a story.  At night, after little dude falls asleep, buried, underneath sheer sheets, sweaty hands clutched around his worn, cotton stuffed tiger, I step out on the balcony, plant my ass down in the plastic lawn chair, and just breathe.  And think.