Word Perv
(noun): One who takes delight and is skilled at constructing, writing or saying naughty phrases or dialogue.
April 30, 2015

A Month in Review

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 0

April was National Poetry Month and so I thought I’d make this last post of the month about what I accomplished this month.

I wrote 38 poems. That’s a lot and while not all of them are great or even good, the practice of writing is so very important. And while not all of them are good there quite a few that are good, some that are really good, and a handful that are great.

I submitted poetry to 41 different journals. Most of them will come back with rejections but earlier in the month, on a day when I’d gotten three rejections, I opened an email right before going to bed, expecting my fourth rejection of the day. Instead it was an acceptance letter – Germ Magazine is publishing three of my poems! REDEMPTION!! I’ll put up the links when they’re published.

Of the fourteen books I read this month, five of them were poetry.

I got to see Andrea Gibson perform live. I have a bit of a poetry crush on her – her poetry and her presence are fierce.

Overall I’m very pleased with how much poetry was involved in National Poetry Month for me. Now I just gotta keep the momentum rolling!


What was your highlight in April?

April 29, 2015

A Month of Many Things

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 0

April is a month of many things. In addition to being National Poetry Month, something that obviously resonates with me, it’s also Sexual Assault Awareness Month. It may seem strange to have a month dedicated to this, but to any person who’s dealt with sexual assault – and according to RAINN it happens to an American every 107 seconds – this is a very important issue to bring attention to.

I’ve been sexually assaulted. I was lucky because it wasn’t anything as scary as rape, and I was able to get out of situation quickly. But it happened. And I was an adult – an outspoken, extrovert adult – when it happened. And in that moment I felt helpless. And frightened. And pissed. And shocked that a man, a stranger I didn’t know, felt like it was okay to shove his hand down my pants and touch me. This happened in public. There was no alcohol involved.

I’m lucky. Others aren’t so lucky. Some people experience years of abuse at the hands of people who are supposed to love and protect them. I have a friend who suffered such abuse. She’s a fighter and she’s strong, but my heart still breaks for her. And so I often write poems for her and about what she experienced. It’s not to exploit her or the suffering she lived through, but to remind people that this shit happens. And it is NOT okay. It is NEVER okay. I write poems for her to giver her a voice, to fight for her because sometimes she needs a little support from her friends.

Dirty Blood                                                                                                                      

He stole her voice when he forced

her to her knees, held the back of her head,

forced her mouth open, forced her to say

“I love you daddy,” after she’d swallowed

him down. He took her voice

when he took her virginity

at fifteen, when she was only just sprouting

breasts. He stared at her

over dinner while her mother

blurred the scene with cheap

white wine. After dinner her mother

kept drinking, seven bottles

in seven days in the recycling bin.

Her father pressed into her

while she washed the dishes, growled

she should shave her pussy, he wanted

to lick her skin. She cried into the dishwater,

salty tears dissolving the suds.

When she drug the razor

across her skin, shaved smooth

and pubescent, she grazed her wrist

with the blade, wanting the courage

to press harder, to color the bath

water pink with her dirty blood.

That night he turned the lamp on,

let the soft glow blanket her

as he slide inside, held her face tightly

and made her look at him, the bruises

blooming beneath his fingers,

between her legs.

The next day she covered them with makeup.

The next day she eyed the razor.

April 22, 2015

Organ Donation

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 0

Eleven years ago today my mom got the best birthday present ever – my dad got a new kidney.

My dad has a kidney disease that rendered his kidneys useless. He was on dialysis for over five years before he finally got a donor kidney. While I can’t speak for my siblings, I know why I never offered him one of my kidneys. I was scared. My dad’s disease is hereditary so there was a chance I had the same disease that plagued him. At 25 I wasn’t yet ready to face my own mortality so I didn’t get the DNA test to determine if I had the disease. Without the DNA test I couldn’t donate a kidney to my dad. I know this is cowardly and selfish. But I also know that’s how I felt at the time and my parents never pressured me or any of my siblings to donate a kidney. Of course now having seen how wonderful it is for an organ recipient I would be much more comfortable donating a kidney. And I’m an organ donor – when I die I want them to take every useful part they can.

When my dad got his “new” kidney he got a new lease on life – and given that living donor transplants (as was my dad’s case) last an average of 15-20 years I’d say he’s got a few more years left to enjoy it. Every year on the anniversary of his transplant I am reminded that I was too afraid to get tested. I was too afraid to offer up my kidney because it meant the possibility of finding out I had the same disease. I no longer feel guilty about it and my dad certainly never made me feel guilty about it but none the less it inspired this poem.


He’d been dying for years

when they finally pulled

the scalpel across the pale

of his body. Unzipped

his skin and stuck their gloves

inside, the heat steaming up

as they pushed aside organs,

finally shaking hands

with his kidneys before

clipping them clean.

The new kidney sat

in a stainless steel tray,

cooling in an ice bath,

red-purple with blood

it glowed in contrast

to the gray, cyst-filled organs

they gingerly lifted out.

In the waiting room

four healthy, grown children

and his wife wait,

their blood pumping fiercely,

their kidneys filtering

their fear and shame.

April 20, 2015

Seeing Andrea Gibson

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 2

Last week, my friend Caitlyn and I saw Andrea Gibson. Her poetry and her performance were amazing. She has such a fierce presence on stage, you forget she’s a tiny little thing.

She did an hour of poetry – an hour! Of the poems she did I especially loved this one. Before she read it she said, “This is the best love poem I’ve ever written.”

After the show Andrea autographed my books for me (I have two of her poetry collections) but when I asked her to take a picture she grabbed my hand and said, “I’m really sorry, normally I would but tonight I have a migraine and so I have to decline pictures.” Having suffered through a six-month headache in 2014 I assured her I absolutely understood. Then I told her I loved her poetry.

Caitlyn was patiently waiting beside me with her camera in hand to snap a picture of Andrea and I. While we didn’t get that picture, Caitlyn did snap one prior, she calls it Standing Party to a Conversation Between Poets.

Standing Party to a Conversation Between Poets

Standing Party to a Conversation Between Poets


After the reading Caitlyn and I headed back to my place, talking about the reading and poetry in general. After hearing Andrea Gibson read her letter to her dog I knew I needed to write another poem to my beloved pooch, Daisy. I wrote her a poem for her 11th birthday, but she’s awfully special to me so she deserves another. This poem is based off something that happened a few months ago when my dog ate pot brownies (they weren’t mine and they were for medicinal purposes – it doesn’t really matter to me but I thought I’d clarify).

The Day My Dog Ate Pot Brownies                                                                     

You started knuckling

as we walked, unable to control

your limbs, your paws flipped

over, the pads toward the sky.


I scooped you up and ran.

Depositing you inside you began

to seize, setting off an earthquake

in my heart.

When I handed you to their waiting

arms I felt like I was handing off

my child.

 You weren’t born from my body

but you were born from my heart.

You are the best parts

of me without any of the heaviness

to hold you down.

 When they finally let me see you

you stumbled forward, the drugs

racing through your veins to counter

the ones you’d consumed.

Even in that drunk-high

state you staggered forward

at the sound of my voice.

I held you till they pulled me

away. I paced the floor,

the aftershocks rippling through me,

till I knew the heart

in your chest would keep pounding.

 One day, when I say goodbye

to you forever, I’ll weave

through the rubble you left

in my chest and the city I’ll rebuild

will be stronger because of you.




April 16, 2015


Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 0

Recently I read this amusing post by Jenny Lawson, aka The Bloggess. Go ahead and click on the link and give it a read, I’ll wait.

Okay, you’ve read it now? Good, now the rest of my post will make sense.

I was already familiar with William Carlos Williams’ poem This is Just to Say and I actually really like the poem. Jenny Lawson’s reaction to it made me laugh because she quantifies how a lot of people feel about poems on a larger level. They read them and then scratch their heads and think, “What?…” As a poet it is my goal to never leave readers scratching their head in confusion. While I know sometimes the deeper meaning of poems isn’t always clear or obvious, I never want to write a poem that is so cryptic no one has any idea what the hell I’m talking about. Rather I want readers to keep reading, to dig deeper and keep turning the pages as they spiral into the world of my poems.

Jenny Lawson may not like William Carlos Williams’ poem about eating plums but maybe she’ll like this poem I wrote, about eating mangos. =)


He said the fruit of a mango

reminded him of flesh –

the way it gave slightly

under light pressure,

how it was at once

fibrous and stringy and solid,

how it glistened and shone

with wetness.

Now, as I eat the flesh

of a mango,

sticky sweet juice dripping

down my chin, I cannot help

but think of him.