Jug Wine

I tried to write a love poem,
tried to tell you I am certain in
our happily-ever-after-till-tomorrow

(tripping over baby-I-love-yous and
let’s-stay-in-bed-together-forevers)
but these words catch behind the

scream I cannot bring myself to bear,
the fruit of a maybe life with you hung up on
the certain harvest of my quiet life alone.

for where you are settled,
you are certain,
and you want me now and for forever

I am skulking in the railyard
waiting for the next train out of town
carrying a bag loaded with the words I know not how to say,

loaded with regret,
weighted down by fear,
because running feels better than letting down walls

because running is familiar,
because I love yous so often end
with I told you sos and

one day you may wake up next to me and
turn your face the other way when
you see me naked and only as I am.

And all I am certain of today is
my fear that you will find me out,
my anxiety over failing to be good enough,

the list of failures I could read to you
(past present and most certainly future)
longer than the train that will carry me away,

the terror building in the back of my throat
louder than the whistle of the midnight express
I have always known I could depend on

your welcome though unsettling attention something I could
carry buried with my doubts until they rotted in the dark together,
and I drunk forever on this sick forgotten fruit.

Marc Smith called me "the goddess of all goddesses" (swoon!). Here's why.

During my visit to the book expo in Chicago to pick up my copy of The Journal of Modern Poetry, I competed in the Green Mill Poetry Slam, the longest running live performance in the city. I didn't like what I'd brought to read so I wrote this poem while listening to the performers during the Open Mic and read it, instead. The poem is a picture of the evening and made real by the words I heard onstage: I took the lines "Hell is always personal" and "I love everything about you that hurts" from other poets, Marc Smith spoke of gambling in his performance, and Black Lavender is a regular at the Green Mill who read that evening. And someone who has never read in public? They're called virgin virgins.

Chicago where Capone once sat,
where history is beginning all around us,
and Marc Smith rolls the dice onstage.

Then a man walks by with his hair like yours
and his coat like yours
and I can't hear him rolling anymore.

Indeed, I see you everywhere.

And oh I need a way to lose
the words that brought me here:

Black Lavender,
prescription strength,
and doctor says
crush it with your teeth,
hold it under your tongue until it dissolves because

Hell is always personal.

I ran more than once to get away from you
and woke up drowning in a gutter
or huddled in a corner where
maybe you would notice me.

You broke me but I'll admit:
I let you.
All those cracks the better to draw you in,
the better to absorb you because baby,
I love everything about you that hurts.

Then there is this guy again,
the damned emcee who called me a virgin--twice!
He must have never seen your face,
He must have never seen me watching you.

My turn now to stand here,
a chance to feel important for a moment,
and maybe this time you will hear me,
maybe this time you will care.
And someone rolls the dice again.

I have a poem in the 16th edition of The Journal of Modern Poetry. Read it here

wimmin’s rights

Have a morning fuck and
send the man home.

He wants to stay,
wants you to call him,
wants to introduce you to his friends.

You have shit to do.

Boil a potato,
eat it with some salt.

He wants to take you out to dinner.
You are not hungry.

There are some stale saltines
in a cabinet somewhere and
plenty of beer in the fridge.

Play some records,
put on an old sweater
and some stockings.

Get high and
dance.

You want to dance? He says.
Let’s go dancing.

You are already dancing.

Lay in bed and
read some poems.

Write a bit.

Work on that rug you’ve been making.
He wants to buy you a rug.

You don’t need one.

Maybe paint a little.
Maybe boil another potato,
watch it cook.

You need a television, he says.
You wouldn’t have to stand at the stove
watching potatoes boil if you had a television.

What in hell would you ever want with a television?
Fuck the man and send him home.

(from the guns get bigger and bigger and the girls move further away)

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Coming in February 2014: the guns get bigger and bigger and the girls move further away, featuring new cover artwork by the talented Addy Marshall. Go on and getcha some!

Buy "Se Refiere a Nosotros: Poems for You" here!

Isn't it pretty?

a month of Sundays

you come home from
the bar again

Drunk.
Alone.

hoping he will call you,
know that he won't

for many reasons,
the most pertinent being

that he doesn't have
your new number,
no one does,
and that's how you like it

good and hard
with no chance for redemption,
I'm sorrys,
or even a good bye,

just you and a bottle
that doesn't help but
offers a pretty good
excuse
for being
so fucked up

and Drunk
and Alone
on a Tuesday night.

(from Se Refiere a Nosotros: Poems for You)

t bars

I
Slow night
at the cat house.

Women sit with their backs
against the wall and wait for

money,
compliments,
maybe a drink.

The men lick their lips and
take their pick of

sagging breasts,
broken smiles,
nervous fingers.

This is a loser's game;
This job gets better with a drink.

II
Slow nights
for fast women
don't end well.

Some get drunk
and some start fights
and no one wants to pay.

Men wait in the parking lot for
the women who will leave for pills.

All this pussy
just waiting for a buyer
and no one wants to pay.

Women leave with the men who
lick the powder off their noses.

It's better for business
to finish in the car.
They cost less that way.

(from the guns get bigger and bigger and the girls move further away)