My Lucky Stars — Pt. 2


Here’s a lil video I shot with a dear friend who is a brilliant musician.



Where do you go

When you go

Quietly into nights?


Can I hide

Lighter tight

In your sexist pants?

Or should I reside

Behind your eyes

Out of sight but

Always in mind?


Should I draw up drapes

By your arteries and

Brave the tides until I drown.


Why can’t the past
crumble like the twin towers

Shut the fuck up.

Then I remember I never saw it crumble—
Fourth grade didn’t have the view from a mile.
I saw the gnats a block away a day later
fish for flesh fished from the rubble.

An ashen city with ashen clouds
and faces kissed by 3,000 ghosts
spooked and bleeding staggering
across the island silent as sinful

I don’t do well with memories
and they stand too tall to tear down
but love me until they crumble
and hold me after.

I saw the missing persons plastered
on every bus station and wither
like their second life.

Glory, glory, Hallelujah rings true
because I need it to now more
than never.

I breathed the hot, fresh, ghastly air
before the government gave me
humidifiers so I breathe easy
while screaming. Beats cancer, though.

Love me like there’s no one else
in your mind and etch my face
as you close your eyes.
Let me see you see me
so I find what peace is
before I’m a bus station
face and your eyes
are closed under another.

Deaths like clap beats
outside my window
and a short walk.
Lord, give me peace
like I’ve never known.

Keep me on my knees
until my lips can no longer
pray against yours
and nourish me til lying
and standing and breathing
and panting.

Pull me in, pull me in,
baby, keep me in
so the only moans are ours
caressed in the thick night.

No weapon shall prosper
against me in your holy name.

And I wanna howl how much I love you
louder than all the warning sirens
and the gnashing parchment bible
sheets and cover my ears as it
flies overhead and I want to know
what it sounds like when it’s silent
and there’s nothing left but us
and where to go from there.

Teach me short-term memory
and lock me in your sights.

Only now does “Glory Hallelujah” ring true
because I finally want it to
so anyone but me answers.


Will 6 St. John’s wort pills a day
make the me go away?

Asking for a friend.

I’ve fucked my girlfriend’s lovers
more than she’s ever wanted to
and my legs thrice as sore —
My sores thrice as wide riding them
riding me til sunrise, until we’re all
faces and nerves too raw to hurt
so everyone’s fucked me and it’s fine.

Anything to supplement anything not me
while I’m gone in sight, mind, lips, and eyes.

I’m in the place where the details
never mattered and the how who made
away with the feathers on artery strings
sing shrill and clear, near and dear
like the love that has all the Facts
tacked to my thigh.

But it’s all in my mind, right?

It’s all orgasms and pillows
in the worlds I don’t inhabit
from my slit sheets and shit sleet
nights where nothing
but the mind’s alive.

I’ve learned everything and it’s not enough.

Let’s drop some more of these
in my sleepy time tea.
Nope. Still me.


If you make a home out of me
will you turn my projects
into condos and evict my
brothers like spirits in a past life?

If I make a home out of you, I’m scared I’ll
linger by the door and batter the frame,
smoke in the stairway
piss in the elevator
reek the halls with arroz con pollo
con carne con saffron-scented dolor.

If you make a home out of me
you’ll meet my neighbors, the knife-point
greetings, the janitors tagging bleach
over tags, the cops hot on the beat
like the family of thirteen stooged
on a wok, the couple that bakes forgiveness
on the thirteenth floor, the dancers that
urge the walls to sway, the couple howling
generations through your spine, down
the pipes to the kitchen. Their son echoes and coos.

If I make a home out of you
can I afford your shops? How long
can I make rent? Sons or daughters
of parents with paper can art
their way through my door and splash
my walls that enshrine you. Will you
police me until you’re free?

I work so hard to keep the devil
and the landlord away. I bake cookies.
I babysit the neighbor’s brat. I cook
meals for the broom-banging lady
below. I do it to show love and hope

you wouldn’t evict someone
chained to your foundation.


I have to unlearn
my 23 years for the other 50
and exorcise the demons that shriek
when your holy water kisses taste me.

So when your eyes don’t lie
when you’re beside me
and your tongue never bites-
I’m petrified.

I’ve held roses tighter than crucifixes-
My calloused hands sometimes
snapped the subtle stems.

Your rosemary hands have done nothing
but season me, but I’m accustomed to being tossed
to dogs, and I can’t believe that I believe
that history didn’t repeat, and I belong.

While unlearning, I learned love’s not
like a plant or a thing
with feathers to check for dirt
or flight. It never leaves;
It never returns.

When You Put Me in Your Pocket

I slit the seams and slide
along the legs I called my own
(when I lived between them)
and claw and pinch the hairs I find
so you keep me in mind.

I cling to the pores
and inhale until I pass out-
But there I am, burning
a hole in your pocket.

I climb out and hang
by the jaded thread and wait
for you to take it off
and find me as I’ve wanted you-



And after fucking about like the ends

of worlds both past and present, and nothing

but eyes to fall back into until we

drown, we laugh at the delirious beasts

that possessed us but held off for so long.


Not one thing between us were spared, but all

were laid bare. The night was our reporter

off the books ‘til the sky told our tale by

light blue and blushed by sunrise, matching your

flushed face— the rest of you rested on me.


When the sun sheds light on what’s left of us

we marvel at what stone eyes missed but hands

read in fluent braille. We find that nothing’s

left to soak in but each other in day

and relish in color what charged the dark.

00:00 at the Blues Bar

where friends and lovers and

friends that wanna be

lovers and everything

between dance in the

nuance before mourning.


where you first learn to

touch ‘em right before you

fuck ‘em right. Where you

practice patience and presence

in clothes but naked

whispers in the dark.


where you leap into

the void and hope to

land hand in hand

in finally good timing

after all the bad.


where you air it out

and let the skirts twirl

or let them lie

where they may or on the

bedroom floor if you will.


where forever lasts the night

and the nights as long

as forever like a hand

on the small of her

perfect-as-forever back.