You will never hear me say
that I desire to fix you,
because that would mean
[in some way, shape, or form]
that you were broken.
And you can tell me
about all of the battles
that you claim you’ve lost,
and all of the monsters
who’ve trampled your heart.
It won’t change the fact
that you still choose to love
with the utmost pristine compassion
under the utmost detrimental conditions.
So, my love,
please believe me when I say
that the last thing you need
is fixing.


I think that if you let me,I’d treat you like the sky,
I’d join up all your insecurities
and bundle all your flaws.
I’d create a new constellation
and search for it endlessly.

I know you don’t see yourself,
the way I see you.
And you still argue,
when I call you beautiful.
But all the things you can’t stand
about yourself,
are all the things I can’t
go a day without,

I think that if you let me,
I’d build an observatory,
just to show you
that all stars
will never shine as bright
as you.

If You Were A Dinosaur, My Love

If you were a dinosaur, my love, then you would be a T-Rex. You’d be a small one, only five feet, ten inches, the same height as human-you. You’d be fragile-boned and you’d walk with as delicate and polite a gait as you could manage on massive talons. Your eyes would gaze gently from beneath your bony brow-ridge.

If you were a T-Rex, then I would become a zookeeper so that I could spend all my time with you. I’d bring you raw chickens and live goats. I’d watch the gore shining on your teeth. I’d make my bed on the floor of your cage, in the moist dirt, cushioned by leaves. When you couldn’t sleep, I’d sing you lullabies.

If I sang you lullabies, I’d soon notice how quickly you picked up music. You’d harmonize with me, your rough, vibrating voice a strange counterpoint to mine. When you thought I was asleep, you’d cry unrequited love songs into the night.

If you sang unrequited love songs, I’d take you on tour. We’d go to Broadway. You’d stand onstage, talons digging into the floorboards. Audiences would weep at the melancholic beauty of your singing.

If audiences wept at the melancholic beauty of your singing, they’d rally to fund new research into reviving extinct species. Money would flood into scientific institutions. Biologists would reverse engineer chickens until they could discover how to give them jaws with teeth. Paleontologists would mine ancient fossils for traces of collagen. Geneticists would figure out how to build a dinosaur from nothing by discovering exactly what DNA sequences code everything about a creature, from the size of its pupils to what enables a brain to contemplate a sunset. They’d work until they’d built you a mate.

If they built you a mate, I’d stand as the best woman at your wedding. I’d watch awkwardly in green chiffon that made me look sallow, as I listened to your vows. I’d be jealous, of course, and also sad, because I want to marry you. Still, I’d know that it was for the best that you marry another creature like yourself, one that shares your body and bone and genetic template. I’d stare at the two of you standing together by the altar and I’d love you even more than I do now. My soul would feel light because I’d know that you and I had made something new in the world and at the same time revived something very old. I would be borrowed, too, because I’d be borrowing your happiness. All I’d need would be something blue.

If all I needed was something blue, I’d run across the church, heels clicking on the marble, until I reached a vase by the front pew. I’d pull out a hydrangea the shade of the sky and press it against my heart and my heart would beat like a flower. I’d bloom. My happiness would become petals. Green chiffon would turn into leaves. My legs would be pale stems, my hair delicate pistils. From my throat, bees would drink exotic nectars. I would astonish everyone assembled, the biologists and the paleontologists and the geneticists, the reporters and the rubberneckers and the music aficionados, all those people who—deceived by the helix-and-fossil trappings of cloned dinosaurs– believed that they lived in a science fictional world when really they lived in a world of magic where anything was possible.

If we lived in a world of magic where anything was possible, then you would be a dinosaur, my love. You’d be a creature of courage and strength but also gentleness. Your claws and fangs would intimidate your foes effortlessly. Whereas you—fragile, lovely, human you—must rely on wits and charm.

A T-Rex, even a small one, would never have to stand against five blustering men soaked in gin and malice. A T-Rex would bare its fangs and they would cower. They’d hide beneath the tables instead of knocking them over. They’d grasp each other for comfort instead of seizing the pool cues with which they beat you, calling you a fag, a towel-head, a shemale, a sissy, a spic, every epithet they could think of, regardless of whether it had anything to do with you or not, shouting and shouting as you slid to the floor in the slick of your own blood.

If you were a dinosaur, my love, I’d teach you the scents of those men. I’d lead you to them quietly, oh so quietly. Still, they would see you. They’d run. Your nostrils would flare as you inhaled the night and then, with the suddenness of a predator, you’d strike. I’d watch as you decanted their lives—the flood of red; the spill of glistening, coiled things—and I’d laugh, laugh, laugh.
If I laughed, laughed, laughed, I’d eventually feel guilty. I’d promise never to do something like that again. I’d avert my eyes from the newspapers when they showed photographs of the men’s tearful widows and fatherless children, just as they must avert their eyes from the newspapers that show my face. How reporters adore my face, the face of the paleontologist’s fiancée with her half-planned wedding, bouquets of hydrangeas already ordered, green chiffon bridesmaid dresses already picked out. The paleontologist’s fiancée who waits by the bedside of a man who will probably never wake.

If you were a dinosaur, my love, then nothing could break you, and if nothing could break you, then nothing could break me. I would bloom into the most beautiful flower. I would stretch joyfully toward the sun. I’d trust in your teeth and talons to keep you/me/us safe now and forever from the scratch of chalk on pool cues, and the scuff of the nurses’ shoes in the hospital corridor, and the stuttering of my broken heart.


Cellulite: It’s Time We All Just Get The Hell Over It.

I’m not sure there is a trait that is used more ubiquitously to shame women than the presence of cellulite. Case in point:


Listen folks. Cellulite is not a ‘problem’. It is not a flaw. Cellulite is a normal function of the way women’s bodies store fat. 80-90% of women have cellulite to some degree. Lean women have cellulite, healthy women have cellulite, vegan women have cellulite, paleo women have cellulite, celebrities have cellulite, body builders have cellulite, bikini models have cellulite, women in isolated cultures who still live a hunter-gatherer lifestyle have cellulite, women with access to unlimited amounts of plastic surgery have cellulite. Most of the women reading this have cellulite. You’re not flawed. You’re normal.

An Anatomy Lesson.



Above is a depiction of the way women’s bodies store fat. From the Mayo Clinic:


“Cellulite is caused by fibrous connective cords that tether the skin to the underlying muscle, with the fat lying between. As the fat cells accumulate, they push up against the skin, while the long, tough cords are pulling down. This creates an uneven surface or dimpling.”


This is a matter of structural mechanics, folks. It’s not caused by poor circulation, PUFAS, animal foods, sugar, toxins, ‘negative energy’, poor diet, laziness, or any of the other novel and ridiculous things charlatans have come up with to sell you ‘cellulite cures’. Men are less prone to cellulite for three reasons: their connective tissues have more of a criss-cross pattern, their skin is actually thicker so any unevenness in fat below the skin is less evident, and they store more fat viscerally (around their internal organs) than subcutaneously (between the skin and muscle.). Their bodies are structurally different.


In 2008, Dr. Molly Wanner, from Harvard Medical School, did an in-depth review of cellulite treatments and the evidence supporting them. You can see the abstract here. I got my hands of the full text and wasn’t surprised at all by the conclusion she reached after examining the evidence:


“The best of the currently available treatments have, at most, shown mild improvements in the appearance of cellulite, most of which are not maintained over time.”


In other words, even the best treatments produce only mild changes and those changes are temporary. When you consider how expensive cellulite treatments are, and how painful and time consuming some of them can be, I have to ask WHY we are willing to spend the money and put ourselves through the discomfort for such a minimal return on our investment. I’ll tell you why: because the media and our culture have made us feel ashamed of something that is perfectly normal and that almost ALL of us have. And in response, we spend our emotional and financial resources chasing an impossible ideal. It’s time to get the hell over it. We have FAR far far better things to do with our time and energy and money than ‘fight’ cellulite.


And here’s another thing, for the single women reading. Once a man had seen a couple real-life women naked, he knows that real-life women have cellulite and stretch marks and jiggly thighs and other normal little traits that the media tries to convince us are flaws. Men who expect women to be perfect are men who have more experience with porn and magazines and blow-up dolls than real-life women. Any man who judges your worth on the basis of the presence of cellulite is only doing you the favour of letting you that he doesn’t have much experience with women, and that he isn’t worth your time. There are plenty of men out there who know what real-life women look like, and who will value you for who you are and not the dimpliness of your thighs. Do yourself the favour of not wasting your time on the former.


The first time I say I love you, your face
crumbles. You look at me
the way man stares in terror
at the stars and the sea.

You grasp your head, fist
your hair, hiss, whisper why me
why me I am weak I am
dirt I am dust I am

Why you? Because
the earth is made of dust
and dirt and you are as
essential to me as earth
is to sky; you give me something
to set my sun against.

The dirt and the dust are not
weak. I could build a house
out of you; you are the roof
when I rain.

Poem by

Rain Orchestration

If only I could capture the fragmentary phenomena
Cascading in the manifold of starry light upon my life.
To cool and condense the elemental
Rolled smoothly to marble between my palms—
Those lost temperaments, scenes, impulses
Perpetually escaping me in the transience of time,
In the flux of the human condition.
Ah, to anchor them strung, beaded, twinkling and tinkling
On a line I could follow to its end…

I would learn the persistence, the fortitude, the courage
To not swallow back my desired, unuttered hello’s;
To feed the eternal appetite for exposure, experience, vitality;
To forge wholly the fervent artistic compulsion into being;
To actualize the untold potential of those lustrous, frothing dreams…

Let the burden of these unnameable ghosts lift
As I learn to catalyze the reactions towards metamorphosis.
And I can imagine these crystalline globules falling
In an inwards rain of chroma, tastes, and luminance
Not as a storm of dissemblance to never master,
But as the melting of inertia, of sleep, this abdicator of fulfillment.


“Worms! Worms! You bastards and your worms! YOU are the worms! Hahaha! No point in fighting it! Your work for my father? Oh? Dave? Save it, you worm! Worms! All these God damn worms!”

Sweet, sweet Charlie The Worm sat on the curb, rolling his cigarette with dirt ridden fingers, screaming at the pavement, cold and cracked beneath him. The shoppers and the workers and the seers and the doers moved past and around Charlie The Worm like stepping over a steaming pile of dog shit. Charlie The Worm laughed manically, drooling heavily from his gaping mouth.

“That’s it! That’s it! Dave? Oh, he works for my father. You better tell him! Tell him! Tell the worm! Jesus, these worms! Hahaha!”

Charlie The Worm stuck his crooked loose cigarette to his his lips, lit it and blew out the gray smoke in quick bursts. Across the street were a pair of women, tall blond twins with full chests and exposed long long long legs. The blond twins sat down on a bench and crossed their legs simultaneously, eerie in their symmetry. They powdered their noses, painted their lips, flicked their hair, primmed prepped solidified their presence. It took some time for Charlie The Worm to notice the twins, but when he did, his eyes lit up, ballooned pupils red with excitement. Charlie The Worm struggled to his feet, groaning like a sick pig. He shuffled across the street, a few cars darting around him, honking and yelling out of their windows. The twins saw him approaching and they whispered to each other, a couple of stoned looks of serious apathy covered their bony faces. Charlie The Worm circled the twins, sniffing their hair and blowing smoke and drool into their faces.

“Worms! God, God, God! Oh? You work for my father? Tell him! Tell him! I’ll tell him, I’ll tell him…worms! My…my gorgeous worms! Hahaha! Shh!”

Charlie The Worm put two fingers to the lips of each of the twins. They looked at him with their big eyes, without fear, without contempt, without anything puzzling at all. Charlie The Worm grinned wildly and clapped his hands together, retarded with joy. The twins stood up, a foot and a half taller than Charlie The Worm. They both took one of his hands and moved down the sidewalk. Charlie The Worm stood between the twins and looked up at them, from one to the other, his filthy face radiating something like happiness.

“Dave? You work for my father? Tell him! Tell him!…Worms, worms…my beautiful…”

“That’s enough, Charlie,” one of the twins said, lacking any sort of emotion in her voice.

“Things will be alright now, Charlie,” the other twin said in the same flat monotone voice as the other twin.

“Your troubles are over.”

“No more suffering.”

“No more pain.”

“You deserve it.”

“Yes, you have earned it.”

Charlie The Worm began to sob, strings of snot falling out of his nose and onto his shirt. In a matter of seconds, he was shaking, writhing like a newborn, ruined. The twins smiled at last and gripped his hand, tighter and fully, a strong warmth suddenly running through the three of them.

“Did you see that?”


“The twins with the homeless crying guy.”

“No. I can’t say I did.”

“Strange. Very, very strange.”

“What is is strange, very, very strange?”

“I just told you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t either, actually.”

“Are we gonna have to wait here much longer?”

“Not sure. Probably.”

“What time did he say he would be here?”


“What time is it now?”


“Fucker! Fuck!”

“Settle down.:


“He’s always late. Most of the time. Usually, actually. Most of the time he’s usually late.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Most things don’t, I guess.”


“What’s so funny?”


“Nothing is pretty funny.”

“What time is it?”


“Fucker! Fuck!”

“Settle down.”