“The World’s Only Loofah Poem” (mine).


The World’s Only Loofah Poem (I mean it’s gotta be, right?!)


                  (This poem was written after remembering a conversation that took place on Vermont Street in San Diego, when Sam mentioned that she doesn’t use a loofah and Caity went ballistic with incredulousless and I laughed so hard but agreed with her bafflement completely–even Misha uses a loofah!–then on the phone I told  Katie this story and she said, “I don’t use a loofah either. Does everyone use a loofah!?”)


Call me crazy but

I was under the impression

that once loofahs were invented

everyone just started using one!

Loofahs are the greatest!

They spread soap with ease

and bubbles! I can’t imagine

using soap with economy

without one! How else

would I wash so well,

would I scrub this self?

A washcloth hurts

my skin and my hands

are just hands! I need

my drugstore loofah!

Don’t you? Don’t




My Saturday (song) & next Saturday (I’m reading!).


Listening to Fleet Foxes, working hard all day on readings & poems & projects so that when Sam & Caity arrive on Tuesday I will do nothing but be with them.



Oh and San Diegans–I’m reading next Saturday night at a gallery called Agitprop, at 7pm. It’s not happening in my yard and it’s not related to SDSU–it’s like, a real reading! Please come if you live here. I’ll be selling mini chapbooks (one of the aforementioned projects getting finished today in preparation for my visitors).


(And so much thanks to Lorraine for inviting me to read. Makes me feel like a real poet.)


Poem with boobs in it (mine).

The day I did not end up swimming

I have my bikini on, it makes me look like I have

some boobs. Yesterday at the market I held

up a big white peach and said to Annie, This is the size

boob I used to want, and she said it was a little big,

she shook her head at me, it was a B-maybe-a-C,

and she’s got As and I’ve got As and anyway what would we do

with that much more flesh? Annie’s a fruit

farmer and she’s got minor boobs but surplus

plums. She liked that yesterday’s market band was made

of dykes and so did I—girls on instruments is much

too rare. But back to the bikini—it’s made of blues

I love and I chose it to impersonate another girl,

that water type, eyes coppered by the sun with hair

blonde and knotted from the sand. I’m not that girl

at all; the ocean bullies me. I come up spitting

with my top and bottom moved and showing way

too much. I’m not the girl who owns a scooter either,

or the one who bakes to ease her stress. I’m usually

the one undressing or undressed, who looks alright

in layered clothes or none at all, not this bra

and undie set pretending to be outerwear for swimming.

I can’t accessorize or alter it, can’t make it somehow

not a brand’s idea of beach. Like Caity’s said, I hate to look

like anybody else and especially like everybody.

But Caity-all-the-way-in-Georgia: I’ll wear a bridesmaid’s

dress for you. I’ll wear whatever color that you choose

for us even if it’s closest to the color pink, a hue that

pukes atop me. I’ll wear it loud and proudly and will

only alter it as much as you allow or disallow me, just

one feather on the collar or pinned into the side. Because

on the day of someone else’s marriage, I’m really just

a woman in a dress like everybody else, there to swoon

and cry about some love performed, and for that role

any boobs at all will do, any outfit that you choose.

Girlspeak (San Diego/Atlanta).

C: It’s as if someone handed him a Magic Hat, but he was like, “Nah, I’m good with this Natty Ice.”

T: It’s like if someone gave him a pressed sandwich with Portobello mushrooms, sautéed onions, and fresh cheese from a goat and he said, “No thanks, I’ll just have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

C: Exactly! Go fuck your pb and j!

T: YEAH! Who turns down a panini??!

O how unlovely!

Pacing around my house, laughing

and crying at the same time, this is

the closest I’ve ever achieved at doing

both together, it’s a Frankie sort of verb,

laughingcrying, and an ice cube is dripping

off my face and onto my sweatshirt and

leaving little puddles as I walk around and

O Caity Baptiste I need you now! This

is going to be a cyborg of a cold sore it’s

gonna be full-on one-sided Botox of the

lip it’s gonna stun all your med schoolies

into silenced awe it’s gonna make y’all

reassess your medical vocations, it’s won

the Golden Globe for Most Likely To Make

You Not Wanna Disrobe Me, it’s the best

and worst thing my body’s done all week,

it’s making me laugh then cry then repeat,

a crunching of the face where I get those

creases round the nose (the face Jen loves

to try to do) and then laughing looking

out the window as the dapper drug dealer

in his white fedora walks by with the dog

-owning homeless addicts and the ice is for

the lip because Lorelei Frantz (of the Blue

Camel Café, of ginger peach tea and my

employment) told me that’s how you burn

a coldsore away, you ice it out, you decide It

Is Not There, you chill it freeze it drip it all

around the house is what I’m doing, a messy

sort of process but somehow worth a poem,

Please come to the sideyard reading on Friday

at 7pm! and see for yourself the evidence! of

me attempting everything at once, of trying

to get everything right the first time around,

the proof is on my lip, it’s a mountainrange

of dripping sickness but wait it’s not so bad

in profile in fact it kind of makes me feel

voluptuous and I hey, NEVER feel voluptuous