Here's a poem. Goodnight.

The way the ants gather in my bathroom intrigues me
Staring, they blend into the black and white grid of tiles
Hunting for food that isn’t there
Their roaming seems so aimless,
But from what I understand of their nature
There is no such thing as misdirection.
I’m surprised to see them so lost
Happy to see them
Thinking of the smell at all makes my stomach turn
And returns childhood memories.
Insects determining a family income
Just. Like. That.
Why is it so, that roaches come, where ants don’t go?



There's a lot going on out there tonight. I walk right past it all. No eye contact. No friendly smiles. I don't want the smoking bar patrons to know I'm jealous. They already know I'm uninvited, isn't that enough?

"I'm not smoking for a week," I tell myself. I know I'm lying, but I at least am not going to buy a pack until Tuesday. Make money to spend money. I keep walking. Heels. I am surrounded by heels.

It's Sunday and I'm sure all of these people are Industry folks. Music, photography, publishing... the only types out on a Sunday, partying like it's a Friday. Looking for something else to do at 1 A.M. "Industry" has such a connotation in this city. Reminds me of "actress" in L.A.

Staring at a drink-board, I take in the range of beverages: Coffees, teas, beers and liquors. Immediately, I consider the beers. I drink too much. But I can't live enough. I get tea. I keep walking.


if i could i would

When I stand in the mirror and twirl my wet strands of hair into ringlets, I can’t help but think of you. Even when my sense of humor comes across as bizarre, I know that it’s just you. I see little girls fall, scrape their knees, and I think of you when I tell them that they’ll be all right, to stop crying and get up again. You taught me that. I can’t thank you enough. There isn’t enough biology to explain the way that you made me, really. I can’t really bring myself to celebrate Mother’s day because every moment of my life I appreciate you.
I think about you when I put on blush- I see myself playing with your make-up brushes and you telling me how nice it feels.
I tweeze my eyebrows and I see Jade, 16 sitting in the kitchen and you telling her that it doesn’t hurt… that you have to go against the growth of the strands.
I try on boots and I wish that my feet were just a little smaller- to have the intricate lace-ups you had when I was little (black school-teacher boots, I considered them to be).
Though he may stand 6’ 1” I like to think I got my long legs from you. Even at your height, you stand so tall.
I could go on.
I get it from you.
I don’t really have the guts to acknowledge Mother’s Day just once because I need to spread it out.
My love for you is overwhelming.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day.


the wall.

It's finally happened. I've reached the point at which I need to run. I've wondered for sometime now how people have lasted for long at my job. Years. Years, upon years.

I recalled a time when I felt pressured by my family to do great things, quickly. Someone was always forcing the idea of an early death on me (my mom); I felt as though I needed to succeed as soon as possible: Before time was up. I've managed to make time stop. I've at least managed to fool myself into believing in this theory. I have tomorrow. I have no rush.

I love my job.

I feel such genuine pleasure in hearing someone say that they can "tell that [I] love [my] job." Hospitality is a forte of mine; I've always wanted to be a housewife. Yet unfortunately I think/feel/know that I'm meant to be more than that. I actually have to DO something. People keep asking me what my dream job is. I never want to work again.

I want to be a professional hobbyist and mother.

But I suppose I owe the world one good trick in the meantime.


so many reasons I can't get a job.

As I've done in the past, I've decided to post another cover letter. I actually am thinking about writing them just for fun, and for your eyes. This one was for VICE. I thought I was going to lose it last week and subsequently quit my job so I started a hunt. Unfortunately my flowery tactics sometimes override my sense of professionalism... but I can't/won't change that (unless there's a lot of money involved).

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is ___________ and I’m writing in regards to your open position for Office Assistant / Receptionist. I haven’t set foot in the VICE offices since the spring of 2008 when my college internship with Virtue Worldwide came to a close. I worked under Hosi S_______, Ciel H_______ and T_______ M_______ as a project assistant. During this time I gained experience in project development, brand research, building and dissecting press-kits, in addition to the odd jobs required of my position. At the time we were working with EDUN Live, RockBand, and MTV (to name a few). I was learning so much, meeting so many people, accomplishing team goals… And then it all stopped.

After my internship ended, I graduated college, moved to Clinton Hill and got a few jobs in retail and restaurants. I tried my luck in Los Angeles (and came right back). I’m currently working at Madiba Restaurant in Fort Greene, which seats a maximum of just over 150. Being personable, organized, meticulous, and level headed is how I make money five nights a week. I spent countless Virtue-intern hours printing shipping labels. The pleasure I get from keeping other people’s lives in order might baffle Freud. I take pride in everything I do, from photocopying to photography. I’m qualified to be your Office Assistant, but most importantly, I miss the energy and attitude of VICE.

I’m trying to keep this cover letter from delving into the realm of a romantic penning, but that’s kind of how I see my work-life: as a committed relationship. I know it’s been a while, but can we have some coffee and catch up?

Attached you’ll find a copy of my resume, which also includes my contact information. My current income is approximately $xxxxx a year, and I am interested in starting with-in the upcoming months.

Thank you for your time-


Freewrite #5

I didn't want to have the keys to his place, nor do I think he was completely ready to make that commitment. When I locked up with his spare I walked into the bodega on the corner. I'm always so thirsty in the morning.


In Brooklyn, there's a bodega on every other corner. You'll find yours. I prefer for mine to have a decent beer selection, with a late night walk-up window that I can see-thru and doesn't feel like a robbery waiting to happen. In time the deli clerk will know your sandwich. His 12 year old son at the register will know your smokes. They'll see your slippers and your heels. Bodega men watch girls become women, boys become men and certain people disappear.

"I'm sure this is going to seem really strange, but may I leave these with you? My... friend will be in to pick them up later..." The keys had imprinted my palms, as I'd clenched my fist on the walk over.

My friend? Are we friends? I mean of course we're friends but, "friends?" I looked back up and his hand was extended. I placed them on the counter next to his hand. My mind was somewhere else. Maybe with Him.

And so it began. The pick-up spot.

When I got off work late he dropped them off there for me. Tali never asked me any questions. Actually he never really said much to me anymore. Our relationship had become a series of six packs, smirks, smiles and SmartWater.

We still never talked about what we were doing with each other. I left my panties on the bathroom floor. My favorite juice was in fridge, soup in cupboards, and snacks in the pantry. I had stopped wearing socks in front of him. It was a big deal.

On my way home, well not home, but I guess it was starting to feel that way- I picked up some unwinding wine and headed to Tali's.

"They're not here," he said as soon as I walked in. He wasn't one for jest; I pulled out my phone. He said we needed to talk. I told Tali goodnight, but I didn't promise that I'd see him in the morning. I might only be seeing myself by that time.

His apartment was a fourth floor walk-up and when I approached the building, I found him with his legs-dangling off the fire escape. "I'll throw them down!" he called out to me. The rubber key-covers felt weird to my fingers. The keys were cheetah print; one cover was a black cat, the other a siamese. These were not the spares.

My palms had gotten clammy on the ascent. I exhaled and opened the front door. This artificial sea scent greeted me. I smiled because that meant he found my bath candles. I felt the tension roll off my shoulders as I extended my leg out of his bedroom window to meet him.

It had been over a year since our first casual friends-to-lovers greeting kisses began. Yet, somehow he captured that feeling in his lips and in the way he cradled the sides of my face, my neckline, every time we met. "What's all this about? There's no way you forgot to leave the keys at Tali's for me. And what on earth are you still doing up??"

"Hey Motormouth, pipedown." (He always knew how to be just rude enough to make me smile. I was talking to much. As usual.) "By the way, they're yours." Looking down, I realized that I had come straight to the fire escape and he was glancing at the rubber key kittens in my hand.


In the morning we stopped to pick up my pulpy orange juice. Tali noted that it was first time he'd seen us at the same time. I guess some bodega men get to watch people fall in love, too.