March 21, 2014


The smell of coffee early in the morning. The whistle of a clogged vacuum cleaner. Wine stains on the carpet and square halos where old photographs used to hang on the wall. Footsteps, laughter. What shall we do for lunch? The scent of fresh-cut flowers and kitty litter. Music and mud in the hallway.

A life lived.


Do you think they know, when they are built, to expect us somewhere down the line? Are they eager to meet us?

The homes that have us. That raise our children and endure our noise. That see us when no one is looking and cradle our fragility.

Homes that we build. That we are made to leave. Those that were just houses that we never made our own. Those that craved an owner like a tired fighting pitbull, and perhaps spent a lifetime licking their wounds and waiting.

Homes that couch our defeats, and respectfully show them the door when they overstay their welcome. Those that anticipate our triumphs, and celebrate quietly by ruffling a few curtains and stretching their eaves.

Homes that get off on our lovemaking, and sigh and pillow talk with us. That watch us change partners, that change and grow with us. That comfort us when they are gone. That allow their walls to get cold after we are left alone. That listen to too much Adele and La Roux when we are gone as well.

Those that always remain projects, or promises. That were supposed to, should have, ought to, someday will…

Homes that are sad to watch us abused, abandoned, and lost. Those that never get to see happiness inside their walls. Those that were chosen to harbor secrets, ghosts, and death, without having a say in it.

Homes that keep us our entire lives, and those that we treat like train stations, means to an end. Homes that are not even ours, yet embrace us and we get to stay. Homes across the ocean, homes that let us go and never get over us. Those that wait, and wait, and wait for us to return.

Homes that gave us freedom. And those who gave us shit from the moment we moved in. Those that watched us make fools of ourselves and never asked a question. Those that we disappointed.

Do they know their fate in advance?

Do they enjoy being flipped?

Do they know when they are about to be torn down?

Are they jealous?

Do they have regrets?

Our drawbridges








Those that we never forget, and that never forget us, and our lives lived.

March 12, 2014


A few years back I was asked two simple questions: if you could be any animal, what would it be? And, if you could have any animal, which one?

Code for, how you see yourself, and how you see your ideal partner.

I said cat, and horse.

I’ve changed my mind.

I am an elephant.

Elephants can be trained to sniff out poachers, and match them to the exact snares and guns they touched.

Rescue elephants come back from the wilderness, willingly, to their rescuers for help when they are attacked with poisoned arrows. They know their safe places.

Baby elephants throw themselves in mud when upset, apparently.

That’s how you become a big stomper when you grow up.

More than anything, elephants don’t forget.

I danced yesterday, and my heels refused to hit the floor.

They clickety-clicked like a fucking tap dancer’s.

I dug not the allegria yesterday.

It feels like the happy dance of an octogenarian who just discovered he did not die during the night.

Imagined invincibility.

As sweat poured down my neck

I smeared my feet into the ugly distorted marcajes of the farruca.

The ones that look like you stepped in dog shit

Or like you’re putting out a cigarette.

Can you imagine the biteable cuticles on an elephant?

I told my heels I was a stomper with a minor in faceplanting

Give me the yang, you fuckers

You don’t understand

The trunk said out of the mud

That is not why I am upset

That is not why I am crying

That is not why I am furious

The herd watched

Raised an eyebrow

Took a dump

And waited.

I’ve changed my mind.