An Introduction

20141109_125217-1[1]Whether it be fantasy or reality or something dirty in between~

It is a reflection of me

And you.


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Never Enough to be Pretty is all the change I have in my pocket- TL Banks



And all the forgotten
The dude who showed up with one arm
The dude who actually had the words Jersey Kid tattooed on his arm
The dude who got high and played me Devin the dude on his phone
The dude who came, came, and was never heard from again
The dude who asked me to be a drug kingpin’s wife
The dude who wanted me to introduce him to dudes on the low
The dude who was a stripper and a gas station attendant
The dude who I had to see only with a chaperone present
The first dude who ever called me a bitch in high-school and regretted it in college
Don’t worry
I remember….


Anadromous love

And  when I am strong enough …
Hello red fish-
Where have you been, my friend?
Alaska, Costa Rica, or Portland?
And can I come?
Remember when we shared a bowl of quinoa?
Remember when we got kicked out of the gay bar?
Remember when I needed money and you didn’t have it technically but you got it for me anyway because you love me and hate to see me scared?
Remember when you said that I could do better than him and him and him?
Let’s swim upstream…
And  when I am strong enough to swim…
Hello blue fish-
What are you doing, my friend?
A Co- worker, homework, a tall cold beer?
And can I have some?
Remember when we sang Queen songs in the car?
Remember when we were alien gods?
Remember when you checked under my paisley dress to be sure that I had panties on?
Remember when you said that he wasn’t good enough and you’d had enough of me crying myself to sleep?
Let’s travel to the sea
And  when I am strong enough to swim to the ocean…
Hello silver fish-
What’s new, my friend?
Comics, or comedy or co-habitating?
And can I be your soft fin rays
Remember when you said that you loved me?
Remember when I said that you could take me right then?
Remember when you hugged me last and I acted like it didn’t mean anything and tried hard not to smell your chest for too long?
I would say let’s swim upstream..
I would say let’s travel to the sea…
But you’re so fresh water
And I want you with me…
Blue fish says I’m stupid
Red fish tends to agree
But I’ve never let them control me
like you do every time I come home again
With you I want to die of exhaustion
From spawning……..
Just remember me
Remember me
remember… me.


Rita Dove’s Birthday

75 sunrises ago you didn’t even exist
and then on the 240th night of this year
you appeared out of nowhere
and supposedly on this day
Herschel discovered a new moon of Saturn
and exactly 4 hours and twenty minutes into
my exposure to your essence
it felt official already
like the Manhattan murders that made the Miranda Rights
and now every half a second
that I spend in your arms is etched in a historical archive
like riots in Chicago at the Democratic National Convention
and I’m convinced god is a formula
a cosmic wind
that took exactly 39 years
longitudinally speaking
to swirl my chemical dust
into your brain wave
when the Eastern Orthodox celebrate St Hermes…



It’s one of those things that you think about when you pack a bowl… You sit there firing up, holding the smoke in and scrolling through websites searching for something entertaining and you see Kim K’s ass and you’re like… whoa.So you start thinking well damn. I don’t know if it’s art or not. And you feel stupid about this internal debate because damn it all to hell on some level you consider yourself an artist too. You hold in the smoke and go, I can’t hate on her for a lot of reasons I mean, she made herself a brand just by doing the basest of things being sexual. And a lot of people don’t like it but maybe it’s brave. And you’re shaking the cashed ash into the trash and going but I’m supposed to be disgusted kind of, I think but the photographer is the real artist, the lightening guy. You turn something so everyday, a body, into something people would rather talk about instead of their child support and herpes and late car notes.Art moves you, right? And damn it somewhere down deep you think that you are an artist too. But you can’t demand respect when you are creative. When you take every day things, like body parts, or straws, or rocks and build it into something people love or hate or want or crave and you are helping people aren’t you? Aren’t you reminding people of their emotional side and allowing them to tap into that, for whatever it’s worth? And so what if you make a profit. The shameless deliver on time, don’t they? You hit the bowl again and realize you don’t give a fuck about Kim K or her husband or her kid or her business or her family or anything like that, that really what you want is to be remembered like that. Loved or admired or hated or vilified. You want the same thing, the attention the respect the glory but in a different way, for your scribbles. You want to one day, a hundred years from now, be the poet that all students have to read to understand the times that you live in right now. You want to be canon. And no you can’t live long enough to ever see that die hard fantasy become reality but you keep clicking the keyboard every day. And when you aren’t clicking, or smoking you are thinking about clicking, you are writing shit on your palms in Sharpee, memoing ideas to yourself on your smart phone, pulling over to write down a verse on a receipt from the drive thru. You’re publishing and promoting and shit, this is the thing… you’re doing exactly what you want to do. And you are contributing to art and writing and authors and poets and lyrics and tasting it. Tastes like passion. You cough because that was a long draw and the smoke ran deep into your chest and you say hey if I could be a prostitute for my art man, I totally would. I would be Stephen King if I had anything scary to fucking scribble down. But you aren’t him. You are you and you are a word slut. Just taking something simple, like 26 letters and thousands of years of memories and thoughts and hopes and dreams and scrambling them like eggs and standing back waiting for the others to come open up the pages and sigh, relief. I am not alone. We exist! All this helps you come to the distinct realization that you are indeed high as fuck and better get some coffee. You have a whole lot of writing to do tonight…..