look up

published on metazen

it's called crazy horse, this leather, and i show you my clogs. they are brand new, but appear old and worn in; the more you beat them up, the better they look. more things should be made of crazy horse.

how to waste your lunch hour

published on metazen

the latest in a how-to series

i never feel guilty until i get caught

i am spending the night at kim's house whose family are jehovah's witnesses like mine. we are a clique of weird outsiders in high school: no birthday celebrations, no holidays, no unchaperoned dating and no "worldliness" (my dad even gets mad at my mom for reading cosmopolitan magazine because "it literally means 'worldly'"). we are somehow in this world but not of it and i am kind of afraid of dying in armageddon.

how to fill a hole

a hole is a hole, empty, nothing.

my skin was brûlée

this is where we loved

the solar system is in jeopardy

published on metazen



we shook her ashes toward the ocean

stompin' on bricks

shoes don't fit feet made of bricks. i trudge store to store, tracking clay dust across the carpet and the most eager salesmen usher me straight out the door. what about commission? is it just an hourly wage these days? i feel discrimination in my bones. they express emotion: sad when it's going to rain; angry informs me of arthritis. they've been feeling like rain for months and i expect it any moment and should probably get my bricks inside before they become soaked and trail rust everywhere. i'm going to write a complaint about this mistreatment.

the missive forms in the weeks it takes to get home and bang up the steps to my apartment, which i discover half empty. i sink a few inches, stumble flailing in a cloud of dust and gaze down upon fleshy toes. testing them, i tiptoe to the icebox, remove a frozen pizza, fire up the oven and wait for the rain.

grow up

cut from my belly; torn from my womb
you and i were in distress
you weren't breathing so i stopped, too
strapped down, crucified by restraints
even the doctor seemed panicked
rushing precisely with a scalpel
bloody rags on the floor
please breathe
finally, a tiny cry that swelled my heart
my guts on the outside were tucked and sewn back in
thank god you were okay
but what do you mean you don't feel like cleaning your room

what you get

it killed her to watch her child board the bus every day. actors' daughters do NOT attend public school, she'd later rage to her older, heavier reflection. she'd planned to be married and divorced by now, cushioned by alimony and child support payments. support in fact was unreliable and paltry, an embarrassment when she did receive it. she mourned her lost 20s.

velvet ropes used to part for her, offering rich fat fruit for plucking. athletes with expensive cars wore the finest clothing but rarely condoms; musicians were a gamble either way. the handsome, recurring character whose face was now reflected in her daughter's evidently did not, but she couldn’t really remember that night. she sipped coffee and browsed through her closet, past the sweatsuits and mom clothes, blazers and comfortable shoes. black stilettos, black slipdress. artifacts. but there was a basketball game later that evening and a pair of spanx in her top drawer.

yule see

eggnog is for christmas parties and this one has to be perfect, she says. pick up some and a box of crackers on your way home.  she cares what our friends think, even though our friends are stupid and want to watch the big chill every year and get high.

the year end wrap up editions slump in the magazine racks along the checkout line.  i notice them when i look away from the blinding holiday sweater in front of me with jingling bells on the shoulder.  is that all you have, the sweater turns and asks, just the two things?  i nod at the eggnog and crackers in my hands.  she waves me in front of her.  you go ahead.  she smells like old lady perfume, the kind my mother would spritz to cover the alcohol on her breath and in her pores.


thank you, i reply.  i place my items on the belt and grab a bottle out of the impulse fridge.  i twist the cap off and soda sprays everywhere, a forceful bubbly jetstream that covers both of us.  the wide eyed cashier slowly calls for a cleanup at her register.  i apologize to everyone for choosing the wrong soda and purchase the sticky items.  i apologize to the sweater but not the perfume.