my horse died today

the bar was slammed_shouting into a dark agreement: “this is the atmosphere”


the show: vagina monologues performed by bangkok rising_an up n growing volunteer organization aiming to raise awareness and promote advocacy to end violence against women and children across a myriad of cultures_values_beliefs_& experience


vagina monologues is a play written by eve ensler_ensler created the play based off of real interviews with women and the relationships they have with their bodies_this global non-profit movement promotes the international stage of the play as it esteems the voracious_the shame_the aggression_the wisdom_the liberation_the tenderness_the laughter_the ugliness and beauty_of the encompass; a womans experience of her body


the venue: checkinn 99_is a cabaret club and nightclub located off of sukhumvit in bangkok_thailand_both parties donated all funds from the performances to “in search of sanuk”: a local non-profit organization that reinvigorates survivors of torture & trauma


we retain meaning_we are not all survivors_some of us are


the play opens with a series of voices_most prominently rising towards justice_when “the story is told” & the “law is a living and breathing thing”_I witnessed both performances & each was appropriate & significant_during the first show I could not stop that loud guttural sometimes inappropriate laugh_ during the second watch I listened to the monologue “water village” a story based off of female genital mutilation & I had to leave


7-10 people in thailand agree that abuse is a permissible action_3-4 women in the united states are abused in some manner during their lifetime_I left the building_I came home_I drank_I left for morning to get breakfast with a friend_I left my purse with my friend_I blacked out and woke up in the lobby of a thailand police station crying as I asked them to take me home


“are you sure this is who you are?” they kept asking me_ laughing_the police chief drove me home on his new classy private white motorbike_I remember the folks giving me a tour of the station_I do not know if this was real


I went to a punk show the next night_I spiked my friends hair for three hours_I jumped in the mosh pit_I fell down_I was picked up_many times_I sat outside and someone kicked me in my back_I made out with a someone_I spent the night with a someone_I wondered what they hell was going on and where I was going to move


I went to work_I did laundry_I thought about how reprogramming the after effects of trauma are instrumental connections to the movement of ones own multiple characters


today my mother emailed me to let me know that my horse died_her mothers name was saturday sunday_she died on my sunday and her saturday_the best confluence of moments happened in forgiveness


I am a survivor_ it is the year of the lunar horse

kareoke on the escalator is changing my body chemistry

heavy blondes it’s simply not true

not thinking a lot

not cleaning it

as freedom from perplexity

koreoke on the escalator is changing my body chemistry


she hands me the keys


midterm scores on pink sticky notes

sex workers or d.v. depends on what you are looking for. what a fucking line


try to empathize with a psychopath

sex is important

innocence folded into itself


I was ignored because I wanted water

she gave me two coats . I was jealous she gave him the keys


faith with in love


the dream was something about my mom


I said can

statues made of water

a hiking rest stop made from a tree


I fucked you as a joke is the saddest thing I’ve heard since I want to kill you

how the boat ran over my foot

all of these nail polish ads about rebellion


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I think its poetry

not because she remembers

love pub

tomorrows anniversary of my deathylifeythingy

some of the times I like to go back


helping other people … because it reminds me to

reenact a milk sequence



earrings today .

fifth chakra blue sound

eucalyptus mantra ham throat back bend rest

on the ankles

like these fellars squishing me

sweating in pat pong asking where super pussy is


reenact a milk sequence::

fronds chasing ghosts along the lips of a ghost in forest

fevers of white


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its the same story

the friendships they

have just one more class

not much to say

besides you are welcome silence



use is toxic              yellow

brushing yellow

the strange deeper

gives a stranger

twist a constant twist


more & more is less & less poetry

on something


skinny dipped popping males in narrow pools sit on lawn chair

ideas of romance

because it doesn’t take place in words


make a secret


uncover a self myself yourself mostly mime all together mine

mostly to the reality that I give myself a seed

drift 2.5.14 111apart


he tags my portrait on the window with permanent marker he tells me I spread rumors

I play violin

he cleans laundry


how I still don’t know anyone that can touch



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The world of topless folks

when your neighbors sleep on your head organs are nice as are orgasms

the man is a mistress in his academy

oral ocean floors that breaks into rows .


the story of the fist is narrated dust

the way piano wears the wire in our lungs


nothin like hey girl can u send me that pic on fb with your normal face & matching m16

about this typo

it was a typo

up with the many straw people

dresses in the lake

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an expat living in bangkok for the holidays

Stories as containers

She lives with unusual stories. Eclectic fantastic interesting intelligent fucked up virulent sarcastic sweet loving thieving sexy ridiculous argumentative creative musical Chinese, Indian, Thai, Japanese, Irish, Polish, German, American, Iranian, Pilipino, Norwegian, Swedish, English, French, Scottish, straight, bisexual, Ladyboy … transience.

They live in a humid, tucked back narrow winding Bangkok Soi. The narrows hug a Buddhist temple, a Hindu temple, and a Mosque whose prayers echo in a weave through the cracked cement. Stray dogs and kittens play on the tin and tile rooftops. Some yell at the public prayers over the intercom, some giggle at the finale which undoubtedly says, white bum.  Let us not forget how they are cupped between their respective cemeteries.

This home is a serviced apartment. They get visitors, get yelled at, and smile at rumoring questions from the neighbors. They have dance parties with portable speakers and smart phones, and Miss Universe pageants in drag for Christmas. They achieve, joke, fail, fall in love, cry, and confide. They have concerts sitting on the burgundy front porch tiles and place fallen magnolia blossoms from the trees in their hair.

Some arrive and cannot wait to leave. Some stay for the night, some for internships, some have lived there for years. Some sew and sell hot pants internationally. Some teach and some work in hair salons. Some are bank tellers, some students, some cook, some play music, some audit, some work with jewels, some write, and some design type. The rooms are as diverse as their verse. Some have posh decorations, some do not clean their apartments for weeks. Some have fish tanks, and some take care of flying monkeys secretly as their pets. The rumors are true. Some of the rooms do not have windows.

The kaleidoscopes of these stories confront and address the insecure nostalgia and hyper aware exquisiteness of experience. Their families are equally as diverse. Some have had incredibly nurturing pasts and others have dealt with abuse. They are over and under achievers. They work together, sleep together, move away, we move in. They laugh too much and little, drink too much and little, sing, smoke, and eat too much and too little. They have yoga and aerobics on the roof and guacamole potlucks. They scissor and gel and dye their hair. They fall into canals, ditches, and the front entrance steps. They Skype for hours, converse for hours; express and share themselves in all respects.

Their stories structuralize who they are in addition to what they define as home. Home is anywhere they have this feeling. Of acceptance, of community, of the strangeness that grows the perspective of what is considered to be both love and working together.  Their home could be considered as temporary, but what are homes, but ones that cultivate and then change as we grow. Home necessitates growth. This is a moment to build, to cultivate, to acknowledge in both the gorgeousness of its temporality and the strength and power in the honesty of the encounter; to come home either today or someday.

Time is limited and they are forced to face, encounter, express, and heal. They further home, and community, and acceptance, as they cultivate love and empathy. This expression reveals a spectrum of world community; in a bend of light honest in both its failure and accomplishment.

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sometimes they look at u like a creature

sometimes I totally realize if I lived here I could be home by now

the intercom      ya peace

just unbuckled

handless with my purse on the subway


sometimes I think she says pussy over

super old women checking me out on the mrt

I’m a very hot      three hour record



sometimes I think she says pussy over the intercom

punk slippers taking pics of graffiti

just so close       maybe I’m starving

glitter pics be gross yo


sometimes I totally realize if I lived here I could be home by now

to be trapped similar to

knowledge is a filming of your friends shake their ass on christmas

as you take a picture of their first public kiss


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laughing color

I don’t understand quite, at least there’s no line

pretty satisfyingly vague as yo:

take it out on the clouds instead of blaming the blue world for the angst of a whatever


how like olives

remove the blood shot in my eyes

on the range the bluebirds singing: I have a talent in


they say it’s how to use the infection as a driving force

there in the nightclub

was the voice of a girl, eating popcorn, dancing to all screwed up


everyone forgets that it all gets grey and I think loves all about the color

the evil angel, in oh my buddha

I don’t understand the sweet bean phenomenon


that gorgeous song spread

that icarus flew

laughing, not even when the darkness came listening to mutual, laughing


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