Tuesday, June 24, 2003


i look back;
i am not the same.
a patchwork girl
pieced by time and by pain
ended; begun.
all these photographs i thumb
the memories locked away
in a receding wave;
memory as an ill tide.
the girl in these images
is not me.
she smiles and my mouth moves
in memory,
but no more
do i claim those freckles,
the sinuous curve of lashes and brow.
i am little more than mist
following images of home.
i sit
mailing envelopes full of
good news and cheer
announcing dates that seem
mere fantasy.
i fold them inside them
images of a girl
i do not recognize.

Monday, June 23, 2003

morning coffee

she has mercy on everyone,
like it's sunshine outside now
with clouds dripping away
into oblivion.

and we search for meaning
brilliant fragments we
delight in claiming
like the strangers
love us
need us

fuck us under the grim city lights
rape the ideas with
exquisite taste

stilettos and lace
morning coffee
and what you can make of
the hidden meaning

night falls upon my face.
it is eleven.
we drive on.

Saturday, June 14, 2003


if you could describe
the sweet agony of pointe,
as you stand there
admiring the shiny
pink satin,
i would respect you.
if you could tell me
of the pre-show blisters
and bleeding toenails,
i would sympathize,
tell you
my own horror stories
but quit
gushing over my shoes
when all you see
is a pretty silhouette.