Friday, December 25, 2009

blaspheming bodhisattva

come back for me boy
bring me blasphemy

or shall i come to you?
sojourn to your stubble
your sacrilege

where i lay my sorry down at your sandals
along with my pens
my many notebooks

a sacrifice to your insincerity

if you'll let me worship you boy
i will lay down my worries
i will bathe your feet

i will take my advice from snakes

you will be my bodhisattva
and i don't need your name

not if you come back for me boy
not if you bring me blasphemy

Saturday, December 19, 2009

don't think twice

it's alright

I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don't think twice, it's all right


the dresser from the post below. work in progress.

and this was my friday night.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

click click clack

it took howlong?
for me to relearn
how to fall asleep without the sound of your typewriter

but that was when? and this is now
and it aint so much that i'm thinking bout you
its just the sound of your click click clack
that's got me drifting back
as it freuds its way into my sleep

when that midwest winter had crawled into my bones
i crawled into your bed
and didn't leave for about a week

saying, baby touch me in the places that got so soft
as i got so comfortable loving you

so when that click click clack
started persisting through the night
had a feeling you might
maybe be clickin bout me
so brown and pink
in between your sheets
all limbs, and eyes, and hair

saying, boy you best not be calling me child
i got thoughts that'll make yours seem mild

it's just that i was never content
being some great man's muse
knew i had to get your click click clack outta my head
if i ever wanted to produce any of my own
and we both know i'm no nice girl
but you had me wanting that life
for about a week

and now you're saying that aint much to you
but baby, no one's made me feel so soft like you do
so if your click click clacks got the fade to blues
come crawl into my bed for a week
maybe two

Friday, December 11, 2009

unrequited love.

she is wooden with pearl and gold accents.

i want her.

and i will never have her.

now i finally understand why charlie brown says that nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.

Thursday, December 10, 2009


after coming soon.

sure do love my job.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

i will always remember us as the season of iwastooskinny

something had nothinged my body to bones

(this time not on purpose, she swears and they shrug)

and in that customarily contradictory nature of mine i gathered up said bag of bones and offered them to you with the courage of a coward and the hesitation of a locomotive

thank you for taking me in

i cannot imagine i was a pleasant thing to hold

Monday, October 19, 2009


just for a moment. i wish i was in between brick buildings. lights from the gaps above creating phantom blobs on the river below. and someone somewhere is playing a nina simone record. so i take off my shoes, and you take pictures, and i twirl.

will you put your arm around my waist? i'm terribly tipsy. keep me from tripping?

Sunday, April 19, 2009


I have taken to church-going since I moved to Salt Lake. Sunday mornings often creep up with the taste of whiskey on my tongue. Did I forget to brush my teeth? I plant my zeppelinesque skinny legs on the ground and it spins a bit but I make it to the bathroom all right. Here, at the holy sink of Blaine Ave I begin my morning's worship; I submit that a clean mouth (in the absolute literal sense) is the key to a pleasant church service. One cannot pray with remnants of camel light on their breath, you see. A quick tousle of the hair and I throw on last night's clothes- I am on my way.

I suppose I might not be such a regular church-goer were it not for the convenience of the church just around the corner from my home. Here, a motley crowd of sunday worshipers gather around papers and books and coffees and teas and cigarettes and vegetarian quiche. I am at home. I am greeted by the leader of our procession as "book soulmate" and am asked to confess all my weekly readings. Kerouac and DiFranco, and I just purchased Travels With Charley for two quarters at the thrift store. He asks what is written on my hand and I say, scribbles. He smiles at me and says, oh book soulmate, you are a writer, and I, I serve coffee! He has no idea how important it is to me that someone else appreciates Salinger and it makes me tear up a bit in a happy sort of way. I take my coffee to go.

Outside, the old war veteran is laughing out loud, boisterous and deep, at something in his paper. We smile and say good morning, and I think: peace be with you, and also with you. On my walk home the neighbor who is perfecting the art of throwing his tennis ball on the roof and catching it again, is sitting cross legged with the paper on his grass. He does not notice me walk by and I like it. I like the independence of this congregation. I like how we all worship in our own way.

I write this to you, brother, because you are one of the exclusive few who read this blog that I actually giveadamn about. And because I know you will laugh at my little church. And because the only thing I have in my life right now that is better than my sunday church service is the feeling of when I hold your little girl and she laughs at me and grabs my cheek with her hands and i know how lovely the world really is.

I hope you had a beautiful sunday, my brother.



Monday, February 16, 2009

There is

something so wrong about you. You are all twisted, all tied up inside. I imagine your organs mangled, covered in knots- the trunk of an old tree. Only these knots do not come from age. They are not marks of your wisdom. They come from that disease of yours, and in my fantasies I am your healer. I hollow you out, (goodbye stomach, lungs. goodbye liver, goodbye heart.) I fill you with cement. You are all better.

But I am no healer. Instead, we are mutually parasitic. You rhapsodize about ideals you do not practice and I wonder how you came to sink into this hypocrisy and spread your roots so thick into it that you cannot find your way up and out.

And I, the enabler, I bury myself in the shallow grave of my unfailing affection for your fucked up soul. Meanwhile, you take me in pieces; a little square child that you push through circle holes.

I melt. I yield to your ego. I feel your presence throbbing sick in the most instinctive quarter of my guts. I fall asleep in your shade.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

i would

like to find a man with morals. one who understands the difference between blindly following rules laid out by others and actually blazing a trail of right and wrong with your own two feet.

one who knows that asking why? is a matter of spirituality and not of disrespect.

he would say that the greatest thanks we can give for the gift of life is to live it to the fullest. and remind me that any god worth his salt has a sense of humor. for lent we would indulge in all our favorite a symbol of our faith of course.

i think this man would understand how i feel in mountains. he would understand how i feel in cities. that they are both forms of temples. one erected in honor of the earth. the other in honor of life.

he would forgive me for all the idiotic things i did with vanity and unhealthy levels of hedonism in my heart. and his forgiveness would mean more than that of any priest i ever faked hail marys for.

for him, i would give up everything. but that's just it, a man like this would never ask me to.

Friday, January 23, 2009

today's blog

is directed at you, kay.

we wish you were coming with us today and we want you to know that we are planning to come see you very very soon.

you're the grey to my christina. fuck the white picket fence. and i love you.

Monday, January 19, 2009

food for thought.

lance said: society views an artist as someone who produces art. i say, nonsense. being an artist is a matter of spirit, not of practice. put down your brush, silence your voice, close your notebook. are you any less an artist? of course not. you are now an artist without a voice.

i said: and do you think there are artists who are better off without their art?

this is a tiny excerpt from a fantastic conversation between my friend lance and i. do discuss. amongst yourselves or on my blog. if you would like to be just as cool as us you could discuss it over dinner with friends. maybe turn off the tv and cook something like this:

chicken terriyaki meatballs with snowpeas and edamame

*also can be made with tofurky, or some super lean organic turkey meat. drink some moscato. sutter home. because it's only 9 dollars for the whole huge thing and because it's yum yum yum.

oooh, and play some bob dylan. some early bob dylan. i just found a dylan-baez duet record for $1.50 at the DI but that is all mine people.

Monday, January 12, 2009

because i owe it.

this old debt that comes up every year; creeps purple-grey underneath my eyes. it rips the sarcasm right out of my mouth. rages something acidic inside my insides.

and i've said it once, i'll say it a million times: it is not okay for a girl to wish she was a snake. or a coma victim. or an anne sexton.

it is not okay. but when it leaves, this bookie on my back, i say: i don't want my emotions watered down.

i forget what it was like. or what it must have been like for my mom to witness.

no, it is not okay. because i owe it. if not to myself. than to her. to those of you who have seen or heard it. and have worried.

so i'm actually gonna try this time, okay? try to fix it. try to pay some of it back. because i don't really want to sit here anymore, riddled in the middle like some oddly asphyxiated junky addicted to her own issues.

and because i just plain owe it.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

just know

they'll chase you if you play their little games.

so you better run. run fast. sugarcane.


photo credit
quote/song credit