The Box of Chocolates

This confusing fall wishes for paper.

Like I am more lost on a GPS.

Where can I get a grant for getting on what I think is the right bus and counting the stops optimistically?

Patti Smith made it with no money, so maybe I should take a bus to Barcelona on my bottom dollar.

Who would dare say I threw it all away?

Later, when I catalogue my life, I will remember those paper times slowly and in piles.

But the world isn’t paper, the globe is antique.

I should have thought of that going to college for one thing I didn’t realize that I still wouldn’t

understand astrophysics afterwards

or that my whole life would have been taught by white men in grey sweaters, brown haired women with no eyes behind their glasses.

I’ve accidentally become the teacher

who will not teach myself. 

The sky is the same color as the kind of wind I don’t hate

which is the same as behind a foggy window.

I have a headache in my third eye.

No bread





Staying awake

Stress and confusion

Mistaken contact lens prescription.


Two fewer minutes till sleep than yesterday
I should count sunrises over sunsets,
count smiles over biked miles,
eat protein over another sleepy beer.

Determined to fall in love again
this fall with skeletons, with indoor lighting, with blacks and navy blues.
6:32. I should start watching moons,
make fewer lists.

Cat steps in red paint on the carpet
                    red paint on the carpet, fall
                    red trees and sunsets and also
the wet grimy spot on the rough crusty carpet where the red paint was scrubbed.
Scrubbed fingers shrinking into white wrinkled fingers in the fall.
Cold cat is mostly claws, cold fingers mostly too.
                                 Red cold fall.

          It gets dark so early.

Not Fear:
          The sunsets are louder.

          White sauce.

Not Fear:
          Making white sauce with you, my cheekbones, and transverse obliques.


Not Fear:

It’s Thursday but you never know

maybe one more beer is the number of beers that will be less than headache,

one less bite of cookie offered by nannied child.

Enough is making me empty,

don’t water plants and it’s no one’s fault if they exist or don’t.

I’m caring less than ever on any repeated grey afternoon.

My writing is bullshit and I don’t care and I can remember the last time a sunset made me cry.


My therapist told me to write

and I wrote Dear Sarah, be more honest-

which is like the weed plant in the backyard

like my faceless yelling neighbors,

making ways into my dreams, injecting 3am domestic disputes

that hide under my bed and later make me wonder

is the headache from sleep too little, eat too little, or drink too much?

And Sarah is hoping for the middle, of course

someone (I did, me, it was me) invited Etta this fall, so hello headache, are you missing carbs or vital nutrients?

But Etta says I drink too much

and lately I drink to sleep and write drunk poems (not this one)

to forget the weed plant growing under my bed, daring me to dig it up,

so maybe she’s right.

I wrote to Nicolas as October crept up.

My life has become mysterious-

cooking elaborate dinner for one

biking to the edge of the city before work

-even to me, like reading French Vogue.

Like Television Sets.

Like France in my imagination

which I keep with my mostly imagined life as the sun is setting again

and I imagine you, somewhere

in New York or in Paris

or now flying to St. Petersburg

reading as I write.

I am queasy to admit, even to paper,

that I wear all black for you.

Chekhov said I am in mourning for my life, in The Seagull I think,

which I say in the beautiful way I wrote rainy poetry in France

not like sad black and white photographs in neon frames.

You call me little mouskito, which you spell horribly wrong,

and I once read that Chekhov called his wife mosquito and I wonder if you are also reading Chekhov as you fly to Russia and I wear all black.

Two days, a week,
Before anyone
My best friend, my mother
Would notice
I am gone.

My work
Not getting done
? After a week
Or more, how many
20 hour work weeks would I not do?
How many people in Philadelphia?

And so many as
I could count my friends
Would delete my eagerness in FDR park,
Would forget I have a cat
And space
Who would not forget me.

It would take many mornings of biking through wilderness
Cat starving,
Work stagnating,
Phone unanswered,
To notice my unoccupied apartment is really
I’m gone.

Autumning in concrete back patio the color of malnourished finger nails-

crumbs fall on linoleum; they and plastic bags collect instead of leaves.

The cold nights reminds me of the stillest evenings of my life:

watching my body dance ballet in the frosty mirror,

struggling over sidewalks cracks and grey puddles in thin tights.


is sweat pooling in my palms

my stomach dizzied like caffeine.

I am afraid of running into people I know more than I am of failure.

I witness with lying eyes


Fall makes me dizzy in a cold carbonated way. Squealing metal, wet socks, dirt in the carpet,

standing still.