June poem


If June had a flavor, it would be strawberry:
bright, sweet, juicy
If June had a color, it would be green
spreading everywhere its florid promises
If June had a sound, it would be
the irreverent laughter of children
over a jangle of dog collars,
a delicate chorus of insects
If June had a smell, it would be peony and cut grass,
the smoky waft from a charcoal grill
If June had a feeling, it would be
rich chocolate melting on the tongue–
exquisite and temporary
a place I wouldn’t mind staying forever

written 6.20.16
Over a year old but I wanted to share.




I keep almost forgetting that I live alone again now. In the midst of a “manic Monday,” I quickly thought to myself how I couldn’t wait to wrap myself in the security of boyfriend’s perfect arms as the rain pours outside. Comfort. Security. How I miss it already.

I’m hardly eating. I’m hardly sleeping. It’s more than him just being gone. I’m being swallowed by something else, something bigger than he or I could ever be. It’s monstrous. But him not being there doesn’t help.

I am a child on the bicycle, training wheels suddenly removed. No warning.

Steady, steady.

I’ve been released.

I hope that before I know it, I can pedal smoothly all on my own.

I can’t remember ever feeling this depressed, this hopeless, this frustrated. It’s coupled with a maniacal attempt to DO EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE/BE AWESOME/BE CREATIVE/BE THE BEST AT EVERYTHING because in order to be satisfied I have to be creating beautiful art or poetry or something else profound.

Instead I stare at the blank walls of “our” apartment, thinking about what we wanted to hang there. The bed, empty on his side. Once so comfortable, only provides restless nights of kicking and turning, waking with a start to realize that he’s gone.

He’s really gone.

There are small signs that I need to awaken my spiritual self but I’ve been ignoring them. I don’t trust spirituality will save me. I don’t believe in the universe’s unconditional loving light and all of that patchouli nonsense anymore. If it were that easy, we’d all do it. Wouldn’t we? I should really listen more. And think before I speak. And fix the million other things that I do wrong, that make up the glorious blackened mass of mental/emotional defects that infiltrate my being like knife cuts. Oh, beautiful knife cuts.

Then I remembered the one spiritual book that shook me (shook a lot of people, I’m sure) – Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. And this:

“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life…”


stay at home, Sunday Girl.

Tonight is lit by yellow light bulbs and
wrapped in cream colored blankets
We spend our moments swallowed up in white silence but for
thirty second commercial breaks of kissing
All the noise gone from our hearts.

she can’t catch up with the working crowd
the weekend mood and she’s feeling proud
live in dreams, Sunday Girl ♥

text messages/ bubbling up/ dill pickles/ blow jobs/ launched/ lost.
needed repair/ jungle sex/ four am.
feelings/ feelings/ feelings/ feelings
meeting a mirror/ finding the flesh/ scrambled eggs/ flannel/resolve

Your hands are in my hair but my heart is in your teeth baby
And it makes me want to make you near me always


You have strange images of her as your sweetheart, your one and true sweetheart, and you want to go steady, want to rake leaves with her, want to give her a letter sweater, these 1950s dreams…want it to be Christmas and lights and a fireplace and cocoa and her wearing angora.

(from Landscapes by Joseph Monninger)

lyrically unfolding

The road gets cold; there’s no spring in the meadow this year
And I’m a new chicken, clucking open hearts and ears
Oh such a prima donna, sorry for myself
But green is also summer, and I won’t be warm
Till I’m lying in your arms

(The Weepies, Gotta Have You)

Give me romance
Give me moon sun rain endless afternoon
Give me letters and longing
Give me waves of neon pleasure
Give me chocolate wine blood-laced meat

Soak me saturate me taste me
Watch me do yoga on the kitchen floor
Feel my body arch to meet yours – navel towards spine
Connection of flesh muscle bone nerves
Spasm at the slightest mention of your name

(scribbled last night)

(photo taken in Brookfield NH 10.31.11)

We’ll sit on the front porch
The sun can warm my feet
You drink your coffee with sugar and cream
I’ll drink my decaf herbal tea
Pretend we’re perfect strangers
And that we never met
“My you remind me of a man I used to sleep with,
That’s a face I’ll never forget”
And you can be Henry Miller, and I’ll be Anais Nin
Except this time it’ll be even better
We’ll stay together in the end.

(Jewel, Morning Song)

I decided I like the smooth shape of your shoulders best
Your beard catches droplets of water from the shower
I prefer you unencumbered
You unearth my deepest laughter
And now I no longer feel haunted.
So soon, I imagine a maybe life with you.
Acres of meadow. At least three dogs and five cats.
We’ll always have beer so good it tastes like honey down our glad throats
You’ve got eyes like beach glass
I trust your heart, and your soul, when you hold me.
Handle with care.

I am not from here,
my hair smells of the wind
and is full of constellations,
and I move about this world
with a healthy disbelief.
And I approach my days and my work
with vaporous consequence
a touch that is translucent,
but can violate stone.


borrowed love

A quick little poem I wrote last night about library books. Or men. Or both? You decide.

Men are like library books.
I’ll find one that glows from beyond a pretty cover,
full of promises on the inside flap.
Hold it in my hands to feel its weight,
then put it in my sack.
I take my time
Breathe in that old book smell
that makes you wonder where it’s been before.
I’ll marvel at its contents
as gorgeous words unfurl –
vivid prose upon my tongue
just like a gleaming pearl.
I don’t treat it well,
as if it were my own.
A spill, a tear, a careless fold
these are the liabilities – I’m told.
I like the crinkle that the cover makes,
lands beyond, the gliding hours of my time
I’ll beg it to romance me
to thrill me with its twists,
to turn about my world
for just a bit of bliss.
I’m almost sad it’s over,
you know it’s got to end
And as I slip it back upon its shelf,
my heart will slowly mend.
I only came to borrow, dear…
I didn’t come to buy.

milk sky

I prefer the sky when it’s the color of milk
with a drop of ink mixed in. I admit:
I am lonely.
Giving up seems like the easiest way
when my heart breaks and mends in a
thousand ways every day.
My troubles are lost on you
like the brightest balloons drifting
upward, and away. diminishing
You never cared
Or really paid much attention
And again I relish in the exquisite pain of
your perpetual rejection.

I play “Foolish Games,”
Jewel has a Swiss face and likes the color of
wine, probably writes songs on napkins like
you used to draw on at restaurants
back when we belonged together.
this isn’t what it should feel like.
I wait constantly and patiently
for the smallest reward, faithful as
your dog.

I’m muted by the gradual loss of
Sunlight and the pointed lack of caring in
your words of afterthought or distraction
but it doesn’t stop my tears.
Ever persistent, I fucking want you still.
I will forever be your last choice,
and you will forever be my first.

VF, 07.05.11