it’s been a very long time since i’ve posted any writing on here, but i plan to do that again soon. i’ve been working on a chapbook to be coming out this fall so i haven’t really had a lot of time to write anything that isn’t going to be in the book.

but those poems are now written and i’m starting to edit, so i’ll have some stuff up on my site in a while. i never post any poems here that i actually intend on publishing or that i have a strong connection with. i haven’t been doing a lot of “aimless” writing these past few months. but obviously that won’t always be the case.

plus i never write a lot in the summer. plus i’ve been looking for a house to rent and that’s been taking all my free time. plus i’ve been drinking a lot, a lot, lovely wonderful summer beers. so that’s what’s happening with that.

summer 2012.

my apartment is generally stifling and on the main floor of a house somewhere downtown. i think about how one day its walls will be a memory and how descriptions of them will speckle stories about strangers from my past, casual friends who evaporate into memories. i think about how comfortable it is, even in its heat, and how it is when i’m alone in it, and i fear not always living here. i think about how the fridge is home only to rotating brands of beer and empty pizza boxes, bottles of gin. about things i have not let go of and the things i never even brought. i think of the pain it would bring about, for everyone involved, to move the fish again.

there are very few bugs in this house but the sink doesn’t properly drain, there are pros and there are cons but if things truly bothered me i’m sure i would fix them. not just the drain. i’m handier than i let on. i am a lot of things i never let on.

we watch the daylight come and go and we meander from the workday morning to the sunday afternoon to the drunken midnight stumble somehow seamlessly. i smoke and do essentially nothing else, i cross off days on the calendar or study patterns on the ceiling but i am never bored. i write and hide the evidence, i apply for my passport, i read and toast bagels and eat them slowly with fresh fruit and wait for the coffee maker when i am alone.

it’s summer.
i never do anything productive when it’s summer and i don’t care to.


it’s storming out and he’s sick in my bed, sleeping, so close i could touch him. and i could, i might, i will when i’m done. every now & then lightning flashes and it fills my apartment. it doesn’t disturb us. i can write by the light of the aquarium.

all of a sudden sensitivity, to the sounds of some other body, alert to each subtle change between breaths, each lift of a chest. neighbours come home & concern me. i fear sound from their steps in the hall. if i had nothing to worry about it would keep me up all night. i drink coffee too late. i also take breaths.

actually, the room is dark and empty. just me and two goldfish. it isn’t storming or even raining. there is nothing close enough to touch, and i might be sleeping.

an afternoon with you
is a maniac with a hammer

i don’t understand television or
cooking macaroni
so we don’t
and you don’t believe

the better parts of my dead
skin land in your hands
because there is
no place else.

but every place that there is
we have been to,
tearing the celings with
fingers and nails, chipping
the bricks and forcing our arms
through the beams


today i stayed in bed ALL DAY! things you can do from bed:

write poetry, call out into the hall at your roommates, drink coffee, take pictures with gunther, be adorable as a direct result, read books, text your sister, watch videos on youtube, empty a hat, plan in/words readings, eat pasta, be sad, daydream, research a novel, write your friends’ birthdays in your planner, call your mom, watch movies, organize old photos, look through old scrapbooks, edit old writing, e-mail the girl next door, smell bad, have naps, jump on the bed, make the bed, unmake the bed, drink more coffee, not worry about it, be loyal, be friendly, be mean, think about swans, unthink about swans, re-read chapbooks put out by friends, listen to sublime, listen to leftover crack, listen to ok go, chat with your friends online, ask for cheer-ups online, receive requested cheer-ups and periodically cheer up, throughout the day.

my eyes.

at three a.m. sometimes
i stay up in the
flourescents of the
bathroom, crosslegged
on the counter
i force out blackheads,
it’s recovery,
the way at nineteen i cut
bangs to hide the
blisters back
it’s another world in there —
if my ragged
straight-chopped second-
hand-store-scissor-cut hair
is big i pretend i’m a
or a groupie in corset leather
i put on lipstick, red,
and stare into the mirror,
try to recognize myself
in my own eyes

an oldie, but a goodie, for reasons that are entirely, beautifully, my own.