I have lost 13lbs in 7 weeks.

I joke that I just want to get back to the body I used to hate. Which, means I am a bit over half way there.

Either way, these antibodies picked the wrong girl to mess with.

Still have a month until the medicine kicks in, so here is a fair warning to the world-I have been running at half capacity for two years. So, who knows what I can accomplish once I have reached a reasonable level of health.

Also, I will be attempting to phase dairy out of my diet with the New Year. So all of my poems will be about cheese from now on.


On a sleepy train ride back to New York. The man next to me brought no books, has no distraction. He stares at the seat in front of him. I claimed the window before he sat down. I can feel his resentment growing.

He wears a crest ring on his right hand.
He hates me.

He woke up and started reading over my shoulder.
Now he really hates me.

American looks rather lovely today, in shades of gray. Rainstorms follow us, or maybe we are just meeting them.

A storm-cloud forms in Connecticut, and meanders north at whatever pace it is that Sunday afternoon storms do. If Alessandra boards a train in Boston, how long before she remarks about the beauty of the rainy day?

We pass empty beaches, I wish the train would stop, allow me to get out for a few minutes. Just stand. Not so long as to feel cold, just long enough to take in the air. Hold some salt to my skin.

I drove around with Taylor, told him that this wasn’t what I wanted. Not him, the setting. Midnight deserved more than these side streets. If I had to leave the city it shouldn’t be for the suburbs. He drove to the nearest break in pavement, parked by the river. I was not wearing the right sort of shoes to creep down to the water.
So instead, we just spoke.

I am ready to leave Boston, I wanted to drive to Rockport. I understood that halibut point would be miserable, frozen over. Dangerous and probably closed. I still wanted to go.

I thought I would do more writing this week. Instead, I coughed up Brooklyn on Monday in a consumptive fit. Blood-letting of muses used up my inspiration. I have spent the rest of the week attempting not to focus my attentions on the wrong ones.

My father met me at the station when I arrived, which was rather sweet. Jump-cut to me running towards him, dramatic, wrapped in red coat. Hugs and affection and such.

No one to meet me at Penn Station.
Which is just fine by me.





I love the cover of my new journal.


The poem of the seven veils.

People often ask if I perform burlesque.
I don’t, but I read poetry.
Can’t reveal much more of myself.

I called up an old lover of mine
How about we just lay on the carpet
And drink too much wine?
It was that kind of night, we both needed one.
He walked into the kitchen,
I stood on my toes, stretched towards wine glass
He said
“Every time I see you,
You look more you.”
“New York gives me an excuse.”

I wondered how many times I had
Pressed the pattern of the carpet into his skin.
He smiled like 17,
Smelled like tobacco leaves.

We spoke of escape,
He was driving to L.A.
I was still breathing Brooklyn
I revealed what the psychic had told me,
About the impending doom of
The second week of January.

We spent the evening
Pressing old stories into skin
Bite marks, moans
Cigarette burns.

I recited poetry,
He laughed at all the right lines,
Reminded me,
“You collect a lot of ammunition.”

I asked him,
“Why do all the bad decisions have to be so good looking?”
“When did it become so hard to be easy?”

I sighed, admitted
“I’m in trouble with this one.”
Then again
Sometimes you just have to do it for the story.


The issue was not if
I wanted to kiss you.
The issue was calculating
The potential costs of such reckless investments.
All the unspoken contracts and
fine print.
Stains of lipstick.
Broken ribs and bruised essential organs.
I can hear yours,
Beating out of rhythm.
Your lungs lean against your bones
Attempt to find their foothold
Your vocal cords moan
Beneath the weight of all
Your words.

Though, this city has different rules.
I have learned that my worst decisions
Breed my best writing.


I hate oxytocin so much right now.

More so, I am annoyed at myself for focusing my attentions on the wrong ones last evening.

So strange, the things that make me run away.
Then, I start to think,
Oh God, you are far too much like me,
and far too sweet.
I can hear in the way
You confuse my breasts for my heart Someone must have hurt yours.
Either part.
Maybe both are a bit beaten up,
Beat a bit louder,
Maybe it was too lovely so I wandered off.

Pay your dime, buy your ticket
Offer cocktails and compliments.
Watch me perform my greatest trick,
My world famous disappearing act.



My walk to work this morning was all dirt, slip and sidewalk. In New York, snow means something different. It means fevered griping, though not in that particular Brooklyn way that I adore. Maybe, snow just means the ice on my shoulders has cracked and cut through me.
Either way, it snowed today.

Between this weather and my broken radiator.
The city seems set upon reminding me,
This would be better with someone.

I have always had terrible circulation, and in the cold my hands ache. Add to that my ever wobbling knees, and sometimes-I truly just need a hand to hold. There are times I have had to ask my friends,
“Could you just…hold my hand?”
The best lovers have been the ones to pick up on it, and just grab hold.
I prefer not to depend on them. Though, I will accept affection when it is offered.

Today, one of my muses wandered in.
Discussed Saturdays,
Dinner dates that were not a date.
Photographs that were taken.
(in which, I fear, my eyes gave me away)
Just when,
I was about to mention Fridays, and evenings.
All these opportunities,
And, maybe we…
He said,
“I should let you get back to working.”

So, that was today. There were also cookies, and all these measurements that have become part of every day, Measures of weight and counts of carbohydrates, inches around my waste. Miniscule promises of progress and health. I am smaller today than I was yesterday, I am dissolving the unwanted parts of me. Performing the great disappearing act we call lovely.


Postcards. An update.


Let’s see.

This is neither poem, nor piece of writing-just an update of sorts.
Ideas linger, cling to my walls, have yet to form themselves into something of worth. Meanwhile, life continues, appearing in the small moments between mornings turning on the oven, and evenings turning it off.

These days, the sunrise is set to the soundtrack of Al Bowlly’s crackled voice, and Satchmo as always sings love songs. This is life in New York for me, endlessly in love and lust. The most gorgeous shade of misery.

It has been 5 weeks since my Hashimoto’s diagnosis. In that time I have, through sheer determination, lost 6lbs. Which is not much, but is made all the more significant considering my current thyroid levels. So let’s just say, I lost the normal body equivalent of 100lbs and I am the normal body equivalent of perfection. I began medication on Saturday, and I am optimistic that with continued effort I will return to my old body.

Which reminds me, I often wish I had explained to her that I understand what it means to be in the wrong body. Or to rationalize on some level that this is the correct one, though it surely doesn’t seem to fit. There are all these extra bits. To question who designed this.

On Thanksgiving my Aunt Francine told me of a woman she knows, who used to draw the illustrations for the packaging of sewing patterns. Which, it seems, is an exciting story to so few of us these days. I loved it.

Last weekend I entertained the idea of sending a postcard, I went through my collection and stumbled across the one my grandfather had sent me for my 18th birthday. I never understood the choice then, but looking back I realize it was a perfect conclusion he arrived at.

“Girl with the Red Hat.”

I mean, does it get more me than that?

So, on that evening I decided not to send her a postcard,
Instead, I called my brother.

I sort of cried at him for a few hours,
But he listened,
Which is a lot to ask of someone,
Especially at 2a.m.

It was a good thing, I think, overall. Our first real conversation in years.

Though there are still a million questions to ask, it seems I may move into Pa’s apartment. It is a rather lovely anxiety to have.

I have also been offered twice within a single week the opportunity to feature as a poet. Which is, just beyond exciting.

Oh, and what else? New muses have wandered their way in, all spectacles, bourbon, and testosterone.

Myself, I have begun to drink in that joyous cocktail, Oxytocin, Serotonin, Dopamine, Adrenaline.
Would be vastly improved with dash of Vasopressin, twist of Lemon.
Though those ingredients will take time to acquire.

pa postcard 2