a priori/a posteriori

Monday, September 7, 2015

Pack 3

Butterfly cooks a Toaster Strudel, for Dragonfly.
Bumblebee asks if he can have one.
Dragonfly asks what kind he wants.
With a glare.
Glares aren't so bad, when they come with a yes.
See you in 4 years, Comedy Hajj.

Time to learn from Kelly Carlin.

Friday, September 4, 2015

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Pack 2

I sit on our bed,
facing the headboard,

Promising i'll have better posture
In our new home.

I pick and choose habits to keep,
Like pairs of shorts, buried in my dresser.
There are emotions woven into this process,
I can feel I am not experiencing.

I have told no one but family.
I haven't been to an open-mic.
I haven't said a single goodbye.

For me,
it is a necessary sacrifice.

I am not ready to leave.

but just because we aren't ready,
doesn't mean it's not time.
Blueberry Redbull
chug glug burn
back to pack

Pack 1

Butterfly flutters into work,
fitting 9 years of goodbyes,
into 2 more shifts.

Dragonfly lies passed out in bed,
ready for her next chapter,
impatiently waiting
for life to turn the page.

Bumblebee writes.
Because it's easier to describe packing
than to shut up and do it.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Drop-off laundry

It's hot and dizzy.

The fans blow the hot air in circles
adding noise,
changing nothing.

A colorful God sits in the corner

Meaning nothing to the patrons,
and everything to the owners.
I will miss these parts of Brooklyn.

These places that meant nothing to me,
everything to someone.
I took New York for granted, for most of 5 years.

The streets have been my hotel lobby.

This smelly sauna is beautiful, to the couple who owns it.

And they are right.
Best wishes, New York.

You beautiful, smelly sauna.


I wait in line, a second time.

The man in front of me shouts to someone.

they're too loud to understand
he screams into his phone,
and our ears.
A tired Jamaican mother yells at the old Indian lady behind the glass.

The glass is thick, like a bank.

Which says a lot. Because we're not exchanging money here. Just anger.
I submit again.

Swipe, code, click, done.

One payment down,
47 to go.

high school, here we come.

Sunday, August 30, 2015


My daughter sits across from me, at our dining room table.

We are back at this week's home, in Brooklyn.

Which means our "dining room"

is the part of our kitchen with a table.
She -- like all the rest of us --
wants the air and space
of the town and home
she just tasted,

And that her mother and I
applied for this morning.
Her mother,
bedroom down the hall,
dreaming of her dream-life,
with one island in her kitchen,
and another two blocks down the road.
We are exhausted.