You Are What You Wear



he smothered his hands
in a dress all tan
wrapped around a wiry frame
made out of cotton or
all things forgotten
he had a hell of a time remembering her name

nails as white as
LED lights
the blues sung their hues in a battery flame
she walked with a sway
on the old roaring bay
surrounded by tides that never came in when it rained

his hands dug up high
in her dress, in her thighs
O the mechanics were art and art that was fine
but a subtle reminder had
cast a brief stammer
as the smitten lad encountered another man’s prize

a flutter of slaps
on the fists up her lap
caused two cheeks to redden under the lamp post beat
the woman in tan
who in fact was a man
rolled her eyes painfully as a mouth moved to speak

“Don’t be so naive-
Don’t you dare judge my needs-”
preached a woman with ideals set firm in the street
“don’t give me the stares-
I am what I wear!”
the randy man smiled, “That’s well enough for me.”


Know Your Nose

Kurt Vonnegut’s portrait signature is forever something to be remembered by. Simplistic in it’s execution, it says a lot about the man; his wild hair depicting his no-boundary style of work, his forever-in-thought eyes, his signature in the middle of it all, representing the clutter in his mind that most writers and creative folk are merely impacted with.


A friend and I were talking about this the other day.

Me: You know some hipster douche bag is going to try and recreate this with their name and their portrait then brand it as their own and call it a ‘coincidence’.

Friend: Of course… In fact, you should be the first douche bag to do it.

Me: I don’t think I have any features worth exaggerating. My facial profile isn’t very exciting…

Friend: I wouldn’t say that. Your nose is kind of adorable.

Me: What.

Friend: Your personality really stems from it, I’d say. It’s like one of those turned-up, pixie/button noses, but with a disruptive slope – You know, like one of those giant slides you see at fair grounds with the bump in the middle of them… Beauty meets not-so-beauty. Like Anne Baxter, but maybe after being punched in the face once or twice… Though, your septum doesn’t drag down like some people, but maybe the way your nostrils flare when you get really, really pissed off could- Yeah, like that! -And the crinkle in your brow when- Wait, why are you giving me that look?

Me: I’m thinking of twenty different ways to hurt you without killing you.

Friend: I’d be careful about that. Because clearly I know how to describe you to the police department’s sketch artist.

Me: No you don’t – You’d just send them on a hunt for a rabid McDonald’s playplace.

With that said, I did create a new signature last night. And you know what? May all of my signatures be forever as slopey as a run down carnival ride, as wavy as the rolling hills of the Seven Sisters, as regal as the back fat from a devoted Wal*Mart customer.

I hope you all have a fantastic day, and pat your schnoz on the bridge. It deserves it.


shnoz sig

Alter-Egos (& Other Strangers)

I have always taken great advantage of personal expression, particularly when it comes to style. And while I was strolling around in an underwhelming crowd of youngsters in my local Forever 21, I realized that I had been neglecting my once charismatic closet, and seemed to have settled for a much more boring, reserved, American Eagle based realm – One which I would hastily set on fire if I were my sixteen year-old, Daisy Chainsaw worshiping self.

My style since high school has gone (rather melodramatically) from: Millennial goth, pin-up goth, new age grunge (Loreena McKennitt meets Shirley Manson), indie douche bag, general preforming arts high school douche bag (“Look at my ragged black sweatshirt stitched with patches of obscure bands you’ve probably never heard of.”), 60’s beatnik, Victorian Duchess, Parisian street urchin (Edith Piaf when she was poor), French hussy (Edith Piaf when she was rich), eyebrow shaven/pixie dressing/experimental makeup addict, feckless greaser, WWII bomb-girl, almost all generations of Tank Girl, and now – Most currently:

Cross-dressing with a dash of 80’s stand up comedian hobo chic.

…Although I want nothing more than to be buried in my worn-out Docs and Kermit the Frog necktie, I think it may be time for another re-vamp. Something new, something exciting. Maybe I will buy a dress – Christ knows I haven’t enjoyed wearing one of those in six years.

The truth behind this fashion-based realization?

I’ve been lacking in confidence. Feeling lost with myself and where I am currently going (or rather, not going) in my life. As ego-fueled and materialistic it may seem to others, creating a new identity can sometimes help lose all the dead weight of your rotting insecurities, and move your life along – In the very least, it will add a little more color to it, and that ain’t such a bad thing.

For me, style had never ever been about brands – I could care less if you shop at Banana Republic (which doesn’t even have one fucking banana in it) or at your local charity shops – It’s all about self-expression.

It keeps me happy. It will keep you happy. At least until the next character in your head demands attention, and for fuck’s sake, I hope it’s a randy pirate.

If so, join me on my ship; I already have the coat:



Stay true to yourself. Express yourself. Embrace the bolo tie.