I Can’t Move

Change/Transformation, Life, Poetry, Random Observations, Uncategorized, Writing

blocked blocks, round round, all rounded

puzzle pieces filling

fitting, seamless and tight and smooth

lost last spaces further

and further


optional is no longer an option

liberation is now less than a k

it’s not ok. I can’t move.






grasping grunting gobbling grabbing

high higher highest; close closer closest



tinned, salted, oiled, canned; metal keys roll us back

we’re beginning to smell

three fish or three days; reeking of never-ending visitors


olfactory assault | auditory hallucination | kinetic disarray

visual opulence and luxurious cultural overload

words of hipster wisdom “you’re so Erin Brokovich”

Everyday loneliness

Creative, Uncategorized, Writing


The minutiae of the every day
overwhelms my being
I can’t
it has no Exit
there are no signs to show it out
no words outlining its path to freedom

I am trapped by my own experience
thrashing, longing
for the simple kindness of someone


I want to share myself with others
but there is no room
for my mistakes,
the common ugliness
anger, blame, bitterness
all part of who I am

hidden from disinterested eyes
tucked away
they get the good stuff

I live alone
with everything else


There is room only for coffee shop conversations
fleeting and surface, full of humor and wit, or intensely moving stories
of suffering and beauty
no space for talk about the officemate I can’t stand,
my loneliness and self-imposed restrictions,
feeling unappreciated and overlooked, invisible

forced laughs when it gets too close to my everyday pettiness,
making sure my “attitude of gratitude” shows; that I know how good I got it.

I see the silver linings and own my feelings, not making them someone else’s responsibility
or burden

there is no place for my regularness to show itself; my not-reasonable human-ness is not-welcome.

I am caught in my own hall of mirrors, the sole reflection. My throat bulges, stretched with all the unacceptable, indigestible me


“No one likes a complainer”
they say
but what they mean
is that no one wants to find out
why they complain.
the real reason
the bleakness that lies underneath

It’s too hard
to bear someone else’s daily grief
with our own so ever-present

Writing by the light of my phone

It's Personal, Uncategorized, Writing

Once, recovering from a break up, I woke up at 2:39 a.m., almost crying.  I’d just had a bunch of confusing dreams about using a malfunctioning toilet installed in someone’s couch, while everyone was hanging around and chatting.  Of course, the toilet malfunctioned, I woke up, and these four poems were born.

I wrote the first one on my phone, because I couldn’t think where I left my paper and pen (right by the bed, of course).  I wrote it in an email to myself, in a dark room with only the eye-burning light of my phone screen and a bunch of stupid autocorrects.  2:51 a.m., done, light off, head back on the pillow. Number two promptly shows up and I reach for the phone again.  I respond to my first email, with the second poem, starting an odd call-and-response email chain with myself.  Four poems later, it’s 3:35 a.m. and I’m done.  I’m transcribing them here, with little editing, because I think the first drafts are usually most real.

Why am I blogging about this?  Because I learned an extraordinary thing – I learned, finally, what I’d always heard:  that poetry is what you use to express feelings that don’t truly have words.  I’ve never been a poetry girl, prose is my gig, so this is a Big Deal.  I finally understand that sometimes, telling a story or writing a reflection or observation simply doesn’t cut the mustard.  Sometimes, you have to use words to shape something that has no shape or color or smell, nothing except itself, surging through your being.

I do not fancy myself a poet, but experience made me feel like one.