It intensified until one of them crashed into me and spilled my beer.

You were never going to let me, a Hindu atheist, walk down an aisle, in front of your parents to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” (ok, my fantasy).

Obviously this is not everyone’s experience during a marathon

DIY Girl turns shit into sugar, men into murderers. DIY Girl is a melted qt-colored crayon

“Give me his number,” my aunt said, pulling on her weightlifting gloves.

Snow misted, or so I remember
I was awake, but only partly
Somewhere beyond dreams
In my space between nightmares
Laying in the dark
And lying that things were still light
Outside, the city sat

Sensitive men have a way of making problems for themselves. ​​​​​​

Art is, to me, a balance between what you say and what you don’t. What you let a stranger’s imagination fill in.

While decorating for Christmas, my nieces stopped mid–garland untangling to perform their new choreography to the ten-minute “All Too Well.” No one asked for it. They were just doing it. Full-body

Top Ten of 2012

She thought of writing as not just a plea to be seen but a plea to be loved.

There are two breeds of love in the world / but I forget what they are.

standing around in my underwear
in the kitchen Christmas Eve

Last week I arrived in Montreal with no particular address in mind.

It was August 26th and my lease started September 1st. A more intelligent being would point out that there may be a problem with

1:25like, I think they tolerate my family, or like they like us, because we're always at the deli

I’m steadily acquiring encyclopedic knowledge of the impacts of different medications and antidepressants on men’s dicks.

journal entry #3

the birds ministered from tall pines

        our eyes were

sites of excavation effaced by inner winters

went blind

                  amid the gorge the

I. xaxaxaxa
I don’t consider myself esoteric or mystical, but while tidying my desk I found a little square
sticker with just the number 8 on it; I think it fell off the new t-shirt I was

gargoyles
and sorries

See, I’m too stupid to write a poem. 
Remember when I said this, that afternoon by the lake 
in our purple & yellow short shorts,

His breath smells like spliff and orange juice and peanut butter. It’s delicious.

Levi’s High

My moods as blue 
as these lake hues
Ass still looks hot in this
double denim though,
so fuck yous 

Swatting flies
On my thighs 
in the desert
Amor

Bouchon

Steak

At last, I texted him the truth: I have bipolar disorder. I’m in a hypomanic episode. I’m really not feeling well, I can’t stop crying. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry...

Revelers in various stages of undress, semi-dress, drag and fetishistic extravagance frolicked, tripping out on the music and their collective naughtiness.

Miming a poetic revenge mambo

That’s when she asked me if you were still part of our family.