June second

the lights are red, but i want to go up

into the sky. drive right through

the pink and purple all night long.

this is my porn. you text me

your naughty, i’ll dream

in the fucking clouds. it’s june

second, two thousand and fifteen,

remember the 80’s? i relive them.

another full moon? do you

really care all that much? stop

howling. i feel it in every cell.

you’re fucked up.

I think my imagination

is so wild

even you

would run away.

but, you stay, you

make me believe

that the sunset

was a masterpiece

and the darkness

its palette.

the moon controls us

like love, we’re


to its pulling effect.

catch me tonight at

nine pm…its’ my son’s

award ceremony,

but i’ll still be falling

from the sky.

don’t forget to look up

and extend your arms,

even if you don’t see me.

Full moon in Virgo

It could have started and ended the same way

but I keep on telling him

(as he holds me close and 

I smell his skin)

you don’t have to read my poems

or my book

to get into my head

so he reads the first ten pages

and brings the air

between us closer.

I see you in there

yet I don’t.

Forget the bloody moon

but what are the chances of it being my full moon

Isn’t that the title of your poetry book

I never published it

oh, I thought that’s what you do

just kiss me and don’t think too much

that’s my domain

forget the questions

remember only the answers.

The air is so thin now.

I can’t read you anymore.

The light followed me for days

to guide me to an empty place

to all parts of this town

as books fell out of my purse

to land on your thighs

it’s sexy to write a poem

when everyone thinks you’re not.

It’s sexy to kiss you

in front of strangers

when everyone thinks otherwise.

Weak night in February

I misunderstand the way words slide by

and land in your gut

I forget how sensitive you are

under all that armor.

You might see me

as a lost artist

(why the fuck you taking so many naps today?)

or not one at all

(you are so fucked up)

or a woman with too many books

(another one, you’re really out of control)

instead of shoes of every color.

I may appear hard


then the warmest softest glow

emanates like the moon

(you are amazing)

But what notion is this?

Why are you sleeping again?

Take some of my weakness

between your hands

and feel it

at five am

on a full moon

running from window to window

to stare at the strength

drive me to finish my other book.

So I read you, you talk to me,

you tell me you are a true artist

and I know how poets see past

the brick walls.

I repeat nothing

only to myself

over and over

like a prayer for the dead.

Pile up the outfits

give them away

delete the words

soothe the soul

with Depeche Mode playlists.

He always thinks I need to be saved

but perhaps

I am doing the saving.

So melodramatic

soap operas have nothing on us

and I have never met a therapist

I liked

so avoid the phone calls

file up my cabinets

with antique manuscripts

and a handful of pens

read me

read me not

save me

save me not

hate me

hate me not

love me

love me not.

You say too much or too little

I shut off my engine

migrating and hibernating

always doing something to stay in

the present.

Write me

write me not

I have nothing to do

with that fucked up myth

of the muse.

And I don’t believe everything I read

just the parts

that are for me.

full moon in eight hours

I search for it
just as you do
forgetting about love
on Sunday
cooking shrimps
and Greek potatoes
so the sunshine
stays away.
Fine by me.
Go to Old Folks home
and play Greek music
they dance for Pappou
so I don’t cry.
I even give it a whirl
bring in the new year
with some fake cheer.
Give it time.
I want you.
You have nothing to do
with soy sauce
and the temperature
of my oven.
I keep listening.
Never understand
why we argue over the spoons
and my drinking.
Just move by me
like a wicked wind.
I will lay with my books
and make love
to your poems.
I will go days
without a word
embrace the silence
and make any meal
your heart desires.
We can eat over jazz
and swing back time
you would get why
I burn candles
and days I don’t.
You would get
why I love cemeteries
and haunted rainy playlists.
It is perfect to soak
in no Vitamin D.
Pass the pills
ingest the sunshine
echo the emptiness
the humidity of
the cold freezing rain.
Warm my legs with yours
warm my hands with yours
and numb my pain
with the edge
of your touch.
The moon has no
only equations.