Thursday, October 18, 2018

the fury regular

you can feel pockets
of tired and bloodless

collect under your eyes.
pitiful pools of discomfort.

dragging your vision -
blurring your voracity -

dragging you back
to that hunched over

position that doubles
you over and doubles

as pain relief
in the form of pressure

on the parts that push
against the logic

and the walls you built
inside and outside

of your body. and wait
for the passing to pass

and pass through the phases
again and again and again -

the cycle inside, the fury
is regular at least.

Thursday, October 11, 2018


ask for help
because you were told

it's okay
to ask for help

but asking
leaves you vulnerable

to the criticism
to the backlash

of asking for the help
they told you to ask for

Wednesday, October 03, 2018


"There are tyrants in my home
I dance to keep unseen."
from Bad Egg by @rafaelcasal

i love this quote. for me, it applies to women. to survivors. 

Monday, September 24, 2018


a database of emotional responses
to every day moments, imagined and real,

result in a snaggle of words
trapped in a cotton-mouthed -

a brain bogged down with words
from rap songs and sci-fi novels

that don't sound like her own voice.
they sound like the voices in her head -

older, angrier, wiser, worried.

Wednesday, September 19, 2018


i can't  be deep all the time.
sometimes thoughts
are more like
a non committal cuddle.

sometimes poets think
about how no one looks good
with a sweaty forehead.

and sometimes that's what
poets feel compelled
to write about.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018


he said "a boat load of trash"
and when he said it
he meant it.
a boat full, a boat load.
he works on the water,
you see.


standard, stranded
in an old book
you trust too much in

even though
you've never read it
you bleed it

take the oath
rolled out over others
as long as it suits you

and your adaptable
standards of quality
designed to protect

a dying breed

Friday, September 07, 2018


channel your feminine side
and listen

even if you don't actually care
about my favorite type of lettuce

just hear me. parse what's important
to me

and stop thinking about yourself
for a single minute

so i can talk openly about the value
of a small, tasty, crunchy green leaf

Wednesday, September 05, 2018


there is a waterfall,
a specific one,
that i visit again and again

where i learned
my own version of losing faith
of realizing my own truth

and where i let myself
be sad. where it's okay for all of us
to be sad and fat and dissatisfied

Tuesday, September 04, 2018


does she comb her hair
with the needles
of the cactus you gave her
sharp enough to draw blood
or swallow the stones
you fed her, heavy and round
enough to sink her
to the bottom

Friday, August 31, 2018


take a piece
don't share it
it's yours to keep
like a secret

Thursday, August 30, 2018

call me angel

you might have said my name
but then you called me angel

and i grew wings damned
by gods and the color of my skin

damned to a cold sweat with fever
rising in my blood like poison

wings that crashed out from me
alongside thoughts and the desire to kiss you

visions of how to use them and the thought,
the idea, this, the thought of a promise

that if you let me use them
i could keep my weight off you

if you let me lie over you
i could protect you

from the pain in your ribs
if you let me make love to you

i could use the wings you gave me
to keep you comfortable

Monday, August 27, 2018

i am not a writer

i may tell stories
i might communicate ideas
transport feelings through words
direct hearts via rhetoric
but i am not a writer

so listen, so wonder
with me
riddle me this
i tell stories
i communicate ideas
i transport
i direct
but i

am not

a writer.

what am i?


a phone call
in the middle of the day
from a family member

instead of a text

Tuesday, June 26, 2018


they think that if the water is hot enough
you'll scream, break your silence.

fragile application

you open up and expose 
your soft underbelly

admitting you're fragile.
don't be, they say. 

they say it loud
like an order.

they think that if they apply
enough heat

you'll melt and fuse
back together

like venetian glass,
but you're not cracked.

you're not broken
until they break you.

you're not see-through
or else they'd see

the blood and fatty tissue
barely holding you together.

apply enough heat
and they think you'll just melt

back together. like new.

Wednesday, June 06, 2018


we had a discussion,
the neighbors and i,

about the coyote
we saw following

one of the neighborhood's
friendliest dogs.


i have been thinking
a lot about the turtle

who i witnessed beginning
her journey across

a busy, single-lane

i didn't see her
on my journey past

on my way home,
so i am hopeful

that she made it,
perhaps with the help

of someone braver than me.

Friday, June 01, 2018

31 Drabbles in May

This space has been quiet, but I have been busy...

 Every day in May, I and a few others each wrote a 100-word drabble.

 Here is the link to my work on the drabble blog.

 ... what comes next?

Wednesday, April 04, 2018

Songs to Mina III

Tree, molting and half complicated
Turned ready for getting more of the amorphous
Alkaline breakfast by your maker
At the proud hand committed but wavering
When life is fighting against premature mortality 

Thee, molting and half given in from the battle
Within your bones
Pained but making it to the ends of days

Monday, April 02, 2018

Songs to Mina II

Wee, mighty, and half connected
Torn, read, forgotten, memorizing of the monologue
And the breaks flagged by our mark
At this proofread, commentating, worn
Where lines are faded by perpetual mark ups

Wee, mighty, and half grieving from the beauty
Within bolded text
Printed in margins, on the edges

Songs to Mina I

We mighty have countered
The red-rotten monotony of the movement
And the broken flag with our armor
At this profane community torn
Where lines are split on punctuation marks

We mighty have given breath to the brutality
With the doubt newly
Imprinted on bones, on their wings

Friday, March 30, 2018

National Poetry Month Project #Translation

For National Poetry Month this year, I've decided to practice translating poems from English into English. I previously practiced this fun exercise with fellow poet Craig Santos Perez for our chapbook Origami Shipwreck.  Below are the three poems I chose with the inspiration and help of Jenni B. Baker and Beth Ayer Chelotti. Thank you, ladies!

Songs to Joannes by Mina Loy


We might have coupled
In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment
Or a broken flesh with one another
At the profane communion table
Where wine is spill'd on promiscuous lips

We might have given birth to a butterfly
With the daily news
Printed in blood on its wings

[In the Pearly Green Light] by Frank O'Hara

In the pearly green light
of early morning when dread
of day and some distant event
is just breaking off my head

of dreams and the security
of nightmares where a note
of myself is always throbbing
its characteristic rote

of personal anxiety, I wake
to real fears of war and chance
and, worse, of duty to the dead.
Yet I never wholly fear the romance

of my interior self no matter
how asleep I am, how nearly dead.

[New York, April 15, 1954]

A Sort of Song by William Carlos Williams

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,

--through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

Monday, February 26, 2018


Facebook has become the place where I write to my friends and keep a time capsule of what is happening. But I also want to keep a time capsule here, because it's so much easier to navigate, and it's all mine. It helped so much to have this post about when we got Jack and Rowdy in 2007.

So here is what I wrote on facebook on February 23rd 2018, the day after Jack got too sick to save...

"thank you to everyone who has shown sympathy and compassion to Ryan and me over the last 24 hours. they've been hard. Jack left a huge gap in our regular routine and a big fluffy hole in our hearts that will take some time to heal. we changed our every move at home to accommodate jack's health struggles, his comfort, and to limit his stress as much as possible. last night and this morning really drove all that home. all those changes. the layers of washable blankets over all the places he would rest, the oodles of medicines he had to take in all the different methods, watching where we walk and scoping out whatever accidents we'd need to clean up. I did laundry almost every day this year. we bought a carpet cleaning machine. we would sit for hours accumulative throughout the day feeding him and sitting with him to encourage him to eat. we slept with fairy lights on so we could help him get to the litter in the middle of the night without having to reach for a light first. we slept in odd shapes so jack would be as comfortable as possible. we paid hundreds of dollars on medicine, special food, and vet visits to make sure jack got everything he needed at all times. it's been an intense few months. Liz, Mike, Jerry, Josh can attest to how long and detailed the care instructions were when we went away for christmas. thank you all for helping us care for Jack.

now... there's a bunch of left over prescription food and medicines. there are blankets everywhere that smell like him that he'll never hide under again. there are A1 amazon boxes that we kept around just in case, even though since November he only sat in one very briefly. they used to be his favorite place to sleep. there was no purr-snoring or uncomfortable grunts as we tried to fall asleep last night. there was no one shouting "meck" at me from the kitchen as I closed the door to leave for work. we didn't have to put Rowdy and Alli's dry food away after they ate their fill because we didn't need to worry about Jack sneaking a piece of food he shouldn't eat.

now... there are these memories. these big, fluffy, loud memories of One Eyed Jack, the cat who charmed everyone he met. the cat who loved us all so unconditionally. the cat who let me rub my face in his belly when i was feeling sad and who made me feel better every single time. the cat who just a picture of him was enough to make friends feel better over text message. the cat who could move completely silently so you'd turn around and be spooked that he was there, or could stomp his feet so loud you could hear him from the other room when he wanted you to know he was looking for something to eat. the cat who, when he played, was so damn goofy you had to laugh at him. the cat who attempted whole-heartily to steal an entire box of pizza in front of a crowd of people. the cat who stole hot wings, and ate all the frosting off a lemon cake. the Jack-a-ron who "helped" me make macarons by taste testing all the green ones. the cat who purred at the vets. the cat who was so fluffy and fuzzy that even at his dirtiest was still soooo soft and fluffy.

i miss the smell behind his ears and the sound of his purr. i miss being followed around the house by him. i miss our little conversations. i'm going to miss shouting at him and rowdy for fighting. i'm going to miss cleaning up all the mess he made while eating because he only had four teeth. i am going to miss him drooling on my hand as he uses it as a pillow to fall asleep on while on my lap. i am going to miss the excitement of having two cats on my lap at once. i am going to miss the little "bbrrrp" he made every time he jumped. i am going to miss the eagerness behind every boop to the nose. i even miss the stress and worry of making sure he is okay and comfortable because it was such a purpose, a cause, a drive.

i miss him. a lot of people will. he was special. he is special. he had a hard start to life, he fought hard at the end. i know we gave him so many soft places to sleep and play. we gave him warmth and comfort and happiness. and he showed us his gratitude constantly. it was an amazing eleven years we had together. amazing and wonderful and awesome. i wouldn't trade a second of the joy and love, no matter how much missing him hurts.

i love you Jackie. I always will. xoxo"

A lot of people responded to this post, the post i put on the wonderful podcast page, and to ryan and my shorter posts on the 22nd.

I miss so much about Jack. 

He was so present, so aware, so fluffy, and so caring. He was our therapy cat, and was therapy for so many of our friends who visited. Everyone loved him. There was something so special about him.

I am sure I will write more soon.

One Eyed Jack Acheson, July 2006 to February 22nd 2018. 

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Friday, February 02, 2018

FABLE for Sale

Hi All! During most of last year, I worked on putting together a little collection of poems that I called FABLE.

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

Many of the poems appear on this blog as first drafts (most from many years ago), but have taken a new form in FABLE. Maybe you'll check it out?

Ebook is in the works, but might be a while. I have a lot of learning to do when it comes to the formatting for that.

Artwork is by my awesome bro, Mike Regan.

Thursday, January 18, 2018


i get them a lot...
the little static explosions
that erupt inside my head
as reflex and reaction
to all the static in the world
of people and people in cars
that flurry past and through
even the most private moments
in the form of thoughts
ideas and memories
that corrupt the socially constucted
need for self care, for "me time"
that i call "time out"
because it makes me feel
like a child without the same worries
as the adult version of me
and lets me focus less on me
and more on all the little flurries
popping and spatting inside my head

Thursday, January 11, 2018

soul twist

a bright colored button down shirt
torso twisting underneath

limbos to the front of the line
for some childish drink

with whipped cream
and seasonal sprinkles on top

and has a dumb name
like merman ale or unicorn breath

that the happy shirt wearing arms
grasp eager and enthusiastic

accompanied by big brown eyes
and a goofy grin that makes you smile back

despite your desired demeanor
of stoic, skeptic, cynical...

miserable. you prefer people think
of you as a miserable bastard

but this bright and shiny unicorn
of a soul twists all your insides

into knots of joy and contempt
while you sip on your bitter bean water

Monday, January 08, 2018


molars clamp down
to break open the shell

Saturday, January 06, 2018


pulled and tossed
handled rough
under the churn
of the day after day
after day after day

Friday, January 05, 2018


the skin on the back of my hands
cracks and splits in the winter
like ice fissures formed from the cold
and dry side effect of artificial heat
manufactured from electricity and gas

Thursday, January 04, 2018


where did i put
that book of poems you gave me?

the one with the poems about love
and flowers and sunsets

the book with the red cover
and the little picture

of a girl who i think
looks a bit like me.

Friday, November 03, 2017


trying to enter the space
through an entry way
a door or portal
a passage, a way between
two connected places

there she dwells
waiting to block me
stop me in my tracks
a wall of heavy thoughts
pounding against reality

she's a liar
but what she tells me
sounds like the truth
I have been telling myself
to ease the discomfort

of being alive
and being human
in the cacophony
of guilty pleasures
and pursuits of power

to be comfortable
to make up stories
and tell myself
I am just as good
as my imaginary heroes

I am their god
after all, I created them
she turns and scowls
they mustn't be very good then
if they came from me

the dweller breaks down
walls around the entry way
the door, the portal
the passage between spaces
and she forces me

to chose a different path
another way through
around or over her
and then I have to repair
the damage she caused

breaking the walls
down and damaging
the art hung there
I sweep up the dust
from the construction

if I want to get in
I have to go past her
so I go through the rubble
and clean up the mess after
rather than push her out

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Bang Bang Bar Poetry Slam

There's no use 
Trying to write 
With a green gardening glove 
Fixed to my right hand 
Like skin 

So let's rock 


The crowd disperses  
Leaves the floor 
In front of the stage 

For a dancer 
And the lights that surround her 
Our hearts surrounding her 
Our love for her  
A quarter of a century deep 
Had been locked up in a moment 
An explosion 
In the bank vault of our hearts 
Swallowed whole in our sleep 

But we're no longer holding our breath 
For that love to find a way out 
To snap out of this coma and 
Find us, find me 

I've only been a muffin for 25 years 
but I've always been Laura 

Find her. Find Laura. 

Take her from the trees 
Out of the gold casing of death 
We suffer everytime we say goodnight 

So instead of dying we heal 
We save this place and we save our hearts 

From the cold guild of gold 
From shovels and jumping men 

Save us from the trees  
And the prophecies of logs  
Held dearly by a lonely woman who listens well. 

Please, find her and save us, Hawk. 

So we can spin out and ask you 
To tell the truth under oath 
The judgment of the destroyer 
The experiment, your mother of abominations 
American made and fed equal parts 
Crude oil and hope. 
Drenched in lattes and blood  
Against the backdrop of a glass box 
That holds secrets like a diary holds memories 
Detailed and out of time. 

We ask over and over 
If you had so much sand 
Would you blow it up 
Light it up, drink it full 
To follow the path to 
Your childhood haunts 
To a tree in the woods 
Where owls are true to their word 
And good men gather  
Where their fathers used to take them 
To tell stories about kings 
In tiny palaces and dogs loose 
In municipal buildings 

Or would you keep it in your pocket 
Keep it to yourself 
Hidden in the echo of a drunk 
In the cell across the isle 
In a booth on the other side 
Of a bar you like to frequent 
Just so you can see the MC dance 
To invisible bands 
And watch young babes 
Turn into tough dames 
After an asshole in the booth beside them 
Lights up under the no smoking sign 
And sooty specters 
Leave a wide trail of blood and charcoal 
For the dying to follow 

We watch the path 
Wherever it takes us 
East, south, inside out 
Up two flights of stairs 
To a place that matters 
To a man that matters 
In the hearts of those 
Even though we cannot see him 
From those who pilgrimage in the footsteps 
Of men with blackened hearts 
And women with broken souls 

We watch the steps 
Of a stumbling fool 
Given rides and answers  
To his calls for help 
Given chocolate cake 
And the family he needed 
Son and brothers all 

Together, a family forms 
Around a table at a diner 
Music playing off the rooftops 
Of the nearby peaks 
The distant ramblings 
Of unrest on the wind 
To the pitch of a fork against  
An empty plate 
And a gunshot, a bullet  
Through the window  

The shattering of glass 
Full of vodka and tomato juice 
Unceremoniously poured 
And swallowed to keep inner demons 
At bay against the rising tide 
Of unnatural forces 

Sit where you were before. 

By the end will we know 
Who the tulpas are  
Or who created them?  
Will we trust our family 
And all the early endings 
Or turn back to accountants 
With questions of ownership? 

Do we trust the dancer 
As she sways through the lights 
Do we trust our ears yet? 
Is that music playing backwards 
Or are we finally falling? 


The golden glow is the mark of death 
And light created by a desire for more 
Against floral wallpaper in a little town 
In the Pacific Northwest 
with a population of about as many of us 
As are willing to stay 
In a little town called Twin Peaks.