Released March 2020 and recorded 2012-2013 in a tiny adobe house in Mesilla, New Mexico, on a Tascam Ministudio Porta 02 four-track tape recorder. Here's a poem on the occasion of my departure from the desert:



we remember graduation

some people had fulbrights, big plans

and then there’s my lilliputian song in the thick of ambition

the feeling that i’m losing, have already lost

she tells me to feel the grass

lawns were a theme that night

we tried to understand

i remembered the opening of 101 Dalmatians

and the story of the bird that spits blood to die



what is it about being an easily agitated body

animated by the breath of the one who does not wobble with her eyes closed in the sun of sunday

to wiggle toward the Substance

to be received



a truly generous person does not feel embarrassed for anyone

when i am free the words will have their own way of remembering

the sentence becoming a cave to house the dreams you do not understand

at the center of the primary chamber:

the heartbeat becomes a song you can’t get rid of

with my body i perceive your body

feel you leaving i remember everything

the way we crossed the rosemary forest, sprig-to-sprig

in our neon socks making heat out of yesterday’s dross

loving our high school songs truly

i imagine my mother, a girl again

a dream shared

across a generation



i’ll not be a girl again

there was a closed-eye beginning

some nights i can remember everything, including my mistakes

some nights i wish moon across my face

for preparation

i spin like a woman in a glass costume doing circles in the vestibule

the moon is a path i’d like to show you in my hour of forgiveness

a book of scraps

was the creation of this forgiveness

and by forgiveness i mean, becoming nature

there’s no ego to injure on this walk across a possible tomorrow

dunes erect may suddenly turn concave and your body will be at the bottom of the bowl

waiting to see what will be left behind

a pair of beautiful purple platform shoes

something very personal



the air is charged with this something-personal, a choir of frogs

weaving a scene in which i am not afraid to show you the seed i keep beneath my tongue

and when i want everything to be okay between us

i try to make it funny

to deflate the weirdness that circulates between our bodies

in the dissonance of the tone-deaf frogs there is an opening

suddenly i am touched by everyone’s insignificant thoughts

trying to chose a type of cereal or the turmoil of breaking a glass when you were almost finished washing the dishes

dreams of stale donuts

the leftovers of a punk-rock existence

3 eyes missing from the cover

trying to glue them back on

brain in entropic decline

i’m so fucked walking around crying smelling dirty clothes wondering if they will pass making collages of uterus monsters and flying tampons maoist posters a box labeled “unicorns” pictures of grecians on bicycles glitter acorns witch hands fly agaric decor panda ears herbal everything portals covered in fake flowers polariods of abandoned buildings and the baby dyke's religious jewelry on my nightstand

traces of a ridiculous existence

a trying existence

having non-ironic profound moments in the kitchen while listening to elton john’s rocket man

everything is funny including crying in public and writing ridiculous emails to your professor at 3am

an old black/creole/native american man in a pink shirt just sat down with me at ihop and bought me dinner

he says he loves people and is psychic

he kept saying

“i had a feeling…i just had this feeling…”

“maybe she wants dinner”