Eat the Sunrise

Old at 30
was exhausting,
nightmares in the daytime,
nightmares in the night.

Burn the whole damn thing down,
I say,
burn it all:
the pigs sloshing muck up on the big White Hill,
the snakes getting high on
hollering at the girls that walk by
on city avenues,
the spiders hissing and spitting up and down Wall Street,
the sheep sitting on their thrones
licking their money.

Let’s shake rough the dust
off our downy feathers.
Wild beasts we are:
be sex and storm,
be obscene with your laughter,
fuck the winter away,
rock hard and hazardous
to the rhythms
of the thunder
and never fake it,
keep the moans loud and wide.
Eat the sunrise
and spit it back out
if you don’t like it,
but leave your door open
just in case
someone craves
to tell a secret
or at the right angle
the light

comes through.

Published Work on Elephant Journal


A poetry piece I wrote was just published on Elephant Journal. Check it out and help an artist out by sharing it. Thank you!





http://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/01/ode-to-wild-eyed-revolutionary-women-poem/

In the Winter She Takes Me

He asked me how I felt,
“like pin drops on the skin,” I said,
and he huffed away,
an elephant from another time.

He had left before
I could explain that
I was a very odd little girl
lost in a gritty n twisted little land.
Ever still the awkward octopus
rubbing my body against
the walls at parties,
eyes shifting to my eight shoes,
listening through your words
to the other side of syllables,
walking home in the fog alone
and being afraid of my own monsters
who came creeping
regardless of the weather.

However
I did have the
smooth rhythms of the moon,
her headdress high,
her eyes glowing fierce gold.
She sometimes would
gently fold me
into air and expansive space
to a place
to stretch,
to linger loud,
to liven the bones,
healing sex breaths and tones.
She takes me home
in the winter.


The song

There are those days
when you’ve eaten the last of the pop tarts
and washed them down with the last beer and
there’s not a goddamn thing left in your fridge.
Your hungry and pissed
and the overwhelming sense of gloom and
graveyard doom
comes a creepin.
The walls start talking,
hissing insults your way
and are choosing whether or not
to come crashing down.
Your pillows feel like bricks and 
tick 
tick
tick 
time bombs.
You try starting thirteen different books
to shake off and distract from the pain of this sick life
but none of them stick.
The so-called friends
won’t text back,
the panic of the dark
starts to settle into chilled bones,
the world starts to tilt to the pointless and blank.

And just when hope is
snuffed out,
strangled out of your head,
you find that one song
you used to listen to
hundreds of times
after your brother died,
and you turn it on,
all the way up,
all the way up,
and it becomes a prayer,
a deliverance from the dark.