Let us go then, you and I,
stowing away in the night,
with our secret cat,
our secret pact,
and our most vulnerable love.

A toast without words,
a medallion,
and a red onion kiss
to keep it honest.




There is no mysticism of knowing–
only the ability to separate yourself
from the ugly rearing crowds of cattle–
only the ability to look in the mirror
and be humbled and disgusted by the world.

Then you know.



I feel no need to connect
with that woman,
or know her as she was,
or pay my respects,
but every time I’m home,
I wander through the aisles of collected junk
in my parents’ basement
and search for her dusty box
of poems
(I’ve heard they’re sexist and senile,
men the spawn of Satan).
Well I don’t know much about the spawn of Satan,
but I’ll never forget the day
she gave my sister a book of poetry,
with a note and condom hidden
between the pages.

In Another Life


We lay in our new bed,
amazed at what we had created:
a new room, a home, a new life.
It was clear to see that we were both over stimulated
by the sensation that for once,
everything turned out the way we wanted.
“In another life,” you had said,
and the tension behind your eyes meant it
if only a little, even then.
And you were right.

Voices (Illness)


It must’ve been drugs, or illness, or insanity that drove
his scratchy moans into a debauched “WOMAN!”
There was desperation in the old man’s voice,
as he leaned over the counter
and yelled into my eyes.

We drove ourselves mad in the skin of our genders,
as he muttered and stumbled away,
I retreated, shaking,
to clutch the phone in the back work room,
and my coworkers grew ten inches in their girth
to protect me.

Voices (Love)


From across the overhead lit room,
we fell into the silences that define us,
in clothes still damp with rain.
It was uncomfortable, at best, but a warm safe place
to sit side-by-side.

With tender smile and telling eyes
you filled the room with your air,
wanting to kiss where her jaw met her ear,
and needing only the warm feeling of
my cheek against your sleeping chest.

We outlasted the days, burning through nights,
wanting more time,
and waiting for the world to give us leave
to run away, with hopes of a promising sunrise.

A resounding YES! overcame his mind
and she cursed at him with her eyes.
That beautiful unfairness that made him smile,
and made her glad that he never stops asking.

Voices (Anger)


When two irrational voices collide,
the world can be undone
in as few days
as it is said the world was made.

It is the fear of awkwardness
(at a level too unbearable for even me)
and raised tones,
(barking down my shirt collar)
crashing into my violently vacillating nerves.

unlock this door
this door

and I am unraveled
by the all-too-familiar sensation of weakness
and vulnerability.

But is it so wrong to run from those
that could break down my doors
with nothing more than a voice?

Voices (Hope)


It is time, now,
that we progress towards our dreams
of living a simple and stimulating existence,
every so often,
the sensation of being alive.
We can no longer appease,
nor can we let our voices be hushed.
We will not be suppressed
by their expectations,
but grow in our skin, and



We rode there in a chariot,
our chauffeur bumming a cigarette off of you as we went.
It was appropriate, somehow,
that after a morning of drinking
and feasting to prepare for your unemployment,
nothing happened.
Our chariot ride came to its end,
and as you entered through those unwelcoming corporate doors,
I knew that you would have to do it yourself.
You stood there, shaking your head,
“It’s hard, it’s hard,”
waiting for them to bring down their
patronizing hammer of incompetence,
but they didn’t.
All they did was whimper
as you clocked out, handed in your keys,
and walked out of that door forever.

Nervous Women


I sat there waiting,
the only woman not pregnant
in a room full of four.
My foot shook nervously,
keeping steady 16th notes,
as they heaved heavily, in turn,
rubbing the tops of their bellies.