I don’t remember much but

I recall that night when we

stumbled back to Jeremy’s

There’d been a thing going on

where the two of us incorrigible,


got you to snort everything, as was fitting

since you were just visiting

but your tour was locals only

he had pills, he and I did them together

we spent the one 80degree San Francisco day on the beach

while my boyfriend languished at home

resenting me

He and I spent nights at the pocket park

a block from my apartment

head on his shoulders



gazing at vibrations,

streetlights trembling sepia streams

tending to the kind of love of drugs that leave

hollow shells of humans in the morning

Your thoughts were secret as I told you I loved him. I did.

I did love him just the same as I loved you.

It’s that kind of love——

we do cocaine off of your body.

Truth or Daring

him to tap the crystalline whiteness

in circles over your nipples

Playing cupid.

you were so Shady yourself,

you couldn’t believe.

I woke—

Creaking repetition

rhythmic halting

I woke, laid death-still silently

willing away, crafting more sleep-breathing

spinning head trying to block out

tiny gasp after gasp

you’ll get finger-fucked

with your side pressed against me in a double bed

I’ll get mind-fucked after that eternally

black flags

It’s not to say that I don’t feel comfortable,

on some level,

perched on the edge of this silly artisanal, locally crafted, reclaimed wooden bench

in a sunny wood-and-brick Williamsburg coffee shop

almond milk lattes, organic crudité

young women sporting the same long broad waves of chestnut hair

 tapping their subtly-manicured fingers over macbook keys in unison

 blogging about a Chicago Girl’s Experience in New York City

palatable privilege like organic, free-trade dark chocolate on my tongue

but, elsewhere,

molotov cocktails arch through the smoky air

I see it all raging from the confines of my computer screen

conscious of what I’m simultaneously grateful for and struggling against

wondering when we’ll see more barricades, billy clubs, brutality

our own blood splattered

if I’ll have to give up these sun-soaked afternoons

to force something beautiful to rise from the ashes

although this afternoon I won’t be doing a damn thing but

reminiscing about that time whole hundreds of us were running from the police

down the middle of the street

block after block, grasping at fleeting freedom

black flags flying

a pot-bellied cop tumbling off of his chugging scooter in the fray

all of us pulling our bandanas up more tightly over our faces,

laughing and pointing

but still, setting nothing on fire

the hatch

We called it the Hatch
it was just a portal to a simple rooftop
2 camping chairs and a milkcrate table
a tree house of asphalt, the whooshing rush of semi-trucks- our crickets
A cross-legged artist chewing the end of his pencil
lips always curled like a child poised for trouble
hunched over a makeshift easel
fashioned from a broken pay phone, long obsolete
A bearded semi-stranger, so quickly familiar in his habits
napping on a stolen hotel towel
not minding that he’d crossed over to the neighbor’s section
golden tan on his bare feet
We sat in semi circles
all manner of spirits flowing at all times
it felt like a perpetual vacation to lounge there
looking at one another for the first time, every time
At 4AM, the hatch glowed like a gate to Hell
we joked and glanced over at it occasionally
willing the night to continue forever
so we could keep pretending to escape the fiery depths
At the breaking dawn on the final day
somebody was crying, if not God- Mother Nature
two of us stood too close, soaked through
leaning terribly near milky white pigeon shit
Beer bottles with warm remnants scattered
the last taste of Red Stripe on a velvet tongue
his hands pressing my hips, the kind of thing you read about
in smutty paperbacks and I bet, in a way, even the Bible
The dull glow of the rising sun cast bluish grey shadows
light from the hatch fading to nothing
Nighttime cruelly pulling back the sheet it lent us
to hide rigorous sin beneath for hours





attempted suicide

I used to perch on the windowsill,
pressed up against the sooty screen
gazing down 2 stories into somebody’s backyard,
picturing the half-assed impaling that would occur
if only I had the balls for jumping
directly onto the mossy bluntness of the fence posts
my neighbors back there BBQing
the wife’s broad expanse of dimpled thighs
sunning her undersides on a plastic beach chair
I wondered if she’d bother to roll over and glance up
if they heard me remove the screen
they’d see my shock of red hair catching the breeze
and my pale, freckled, knobby knees
my whole badly attired 13 year old body
dropping pathetically,
banging half into the fence,
half into the house with some dull thuds
I’d stand up, sheepishly dust myself off
hold my throbbing temple with shaking hands
tears smarting in my eyes, embarrassed
“I’m fine, I’m fine”
and walk back inside.


For me, everything began in Maine, as it had for generations before mine, but none any longer. The scent of pine was always stereotypically pungent and everyone was hard-pressed to find a place to stand without a dry needle crackling under their feet. This was an old mill town, all brick factories and French-Catholic churches framed against crisp azure skies. The streets were perpetually cracked and sandy from obscene amounts of snowfall and most of the residents lived in worn four-story tenement houses clustered downtown.

A decade before I was born, my mom left her first husband, because any relationship that is based on doing right by a baby when you’re seventeen years old is likely to suffer over time. Several years later, in the late 1970’s, my mom and papa, two of the many, many bikers in the area, fell in love and got married in their leathers and faded Harley t-shirts and then they got to work on creating me.

We lived in a large brick tenement on the Androscoggin River, its rusty banks serving as our back yard. My older brother, with his thick red hair running wild on an amusingly large head, was 10 years my senior and given free reign to do as he wished. I knew him then simply as the good-natured kid who was into break-dancing and also trapping me on the floor face-down in figure-four leg-locks that he’d seen wrestlers do on WWF episodes. It wasn’t until thirty years later that he began to chronicle for me all the marijuana he had smoked and cheap booze he drank back by the river at an age where, when I reached it, I could barely leave my front yard unsupervised. When I was that young the nauseating thought of alcohol was one that only served to bring back a faint memory of my parent’s friends putting a nipple on a can of beer and thinking it was hilarious to feed a little to me like it was mothers’ milk.

My mom was always thin like a wisp, with long, soft chestnut hair. When she wasn’t chain-smoking and eating macaroni flavored with only salt, pepper, and butter- she was working out to Jane Fonda VHS tapes or listening to Willie Nelson cassettes. My father, who was (proudly!!) from Quebec, was strong and barrel-chested with an unruly ginger afro. He was a wild man, charming and brash, and the biker gang he ran had an unwavering respect for him. He once led a massive motorcycle rally against a proposed helmet law and I still have the yellowed cut-out from the newspaper where he’s doing a trick on his bike, head bare as sin, standing on the seat while zooming down Main Street, daring the cops to say something.

Everything my father did was from the mindset of an outlaw. He drank heavily and according to my mom, “fought like Muhammad Ali”. Unfortunately, it wasn’t all Laconia Bike Week and Creedence sing-alongs. Cocaine eventually got thrown into the mix and my dad went to rot in jail as a result. I still have a stack of letters from that time, peppered with cheerful comments about the nice “house” he lived in in New Hampshire. The letters to my mother offer a picture of his struggle, as the prosecutors tried to cut deals with him if he’d give his friends up to them, but he stated in many letters he’d “rather die than be a snitch”. So that was that. My papa spent years in jail, scrawling “Fuck N.H. Live Free or Die” on the back of every scrap of paper he could get his tobacco-stained hands on, so my mom moved us down to Connecticut toward a new life and away from the poverty-stricken Franco-Canadian existence she’d always known and which had not served her terribly well. My father faded away as part of that package.

Our move never fully kept us away from central Maine though. Every holiday and summer vacation was spent up there. My father’s parents still lived on the third floor of the old sparse apartment building on Park St. as they always had. They spoke terrible English and it used to terrify me to visit. I’d sit in the barren kitchen, popping an endless stream of M&M’s into my mouth, watching my grandmother’s heavy wrinkles gather around her perpetual smirk, her tiny eyes- pink and glassy- staring at me intently, her chimp-like lips reaching for the murderously hot black coffee she drank unflinchingly. Many of her phrases I perceived as animal sounds: “eh?” “neigh!” “bah.”, and the rest of her communication was just a series of sharp warbled questions that forced me to ask “what???” over and over again. If my mom had been kind enough to stay the course at the apartment with me, I’d look toward her out of the corner of my desperate eyes, willing a translation or a change of topic that wasn’t focused on asking me a series of unintelligible questions while I tried miserably to field them.

My grandma, hunched over to a height well under five feet, always sporting worn leggings and short-sleeved cotton shirts, would sometimes make my silent, kind grandpa drive us to a local diner so that she could show off her little redheaded American granddaughter. I’d be paraded around like a poor man’s Shirley Temple, wrapped in the white faux fur coat she bought me annually, shyly saying hello to one French-Canadian World War Two veteran after another. Then the whole silver-haired gaggle would sit around enjoying their hot dogs and saying God knows what about me in French for the rest of the visit.

When it was time to return to Connecticut and my mother had me buckled up in the car, like clockwork my grandma would hurry over and not-terribly-subtly slip me an envelope from her knobby, age-spotted fingers. It always contained at least one hundred dollar bill, if not several. Even at five years old I knew to display total discretion when taking it and act as if I had been handed nothing. This remained our game until the year she passed away, when she gave me three separate certified checks containing sizable chunks of the last of her secret, hoarded money. My papa once told my mom that his mother barely gave him new clothes or shoes and that he was always hungry, yet she had money stashed everywhere. I suppose she’d always been saving it for me.





what an incredible amount of pornography

you must clear from your browser’s history

after furtively bringing yourself to ecstasy

writhing in guilt so quietly, mostly silently

betraying that stifled carnality with wide eyes

and hungry curling lips

shaming yourself, devouring hard bodies

Dad & Son role-playing

Dirty Hairy Uncles

Twinks Sprinkled With Cum,

you love it so desperately

so deep down in your white underbelly

that it manifests into nausea

a nausea that drives orgasm after blasting orgasm

so you no longer know the difference between hatred and pleasure

your wife’s vagina a sad facsimile

of all that you imagine an ass to be