Drunk Dreams


Star swarm
Relative anxiety
Pretending to pretend to
not care anymore
Instead we laugh, drink
and dine our nights
away in glitter splendor
and wine, half-drunk
is not really drunken
unless you can smell it on your pores

Discursive thought pattern
in a well of smoke
It tells you to shut up
and then it laughs at you for thinking
thoughts about yourself
and you think you’re surely crazy
so you think and drink some more.

Handle with care.
Do you see how you’ve fallen?
It’s in just such a way
that meditating on starlight is
not enough for our eyes tonight

Kiss me and make me feel the stars again.

Why can’t I get you out of my head
when you’ve gotten so out of my life
that I can’t remember if yesterday was a year ago or today
And every time I think of stars
I think of you and the wine
and you’ve ruined time for me

Where do you go when you’re dead but living?
What do ghosts smell like?
Apothic red and haunting moonlight
My drunk dreams are cheaper than you

I’d drink from your cup any day,
anytime, and never all at once.

What the fuck was I talking about when I accidentally told you I love you?
Accidentally on purpose I decided you were my tomorrow
and hung my wedding dress on the cobweb cabinet shelf of my mind
and you
Decided I was yesterday
and never, all at once
You’re always to me
Always, always

and I can smell you on my pores.

I am a jealous bitch.

My eyes are green and my heart is greener
I’ll hate you for your blood that bleeds red.

I am a jealous bitch.

I’ll walk through the trees and say, “Please,
I wish I was made out of wood” –
Oak or pine would be fine
Let my hair be luscious like leaves swaying in the breeze just so I could be
still and alone with myself.

I am a jealous bitch.

And do you know why?
It’s because I’m afraid –

Afraid that if someone seems better than me it means I’m not good enough.
Afraid that if my boyfriend sees a girl with bigger tits, a prettier face, smaller waist who’s less broken than me and I’m not there to stop him, he’ll leave me
and if I am, he’ll deceive me.

I am a jealous bitch.

Because I think I’m supposed to be the smartest, best-looking, most confident, clever, graceful woman who ever walked
who can tell the best jokes and hold her liquor
with the heart of an artist and the soul of a saint
who cooks for you, cleans for you, serves you a drink with a smile and still gets 8 hours of sleep every night

I am a jealous bitch.

Afraid that second place is just as bad as last so I don’t even try.
Instead, I sit in a boiling pot of my own insecurity, resentment and shame
and cook until a putrid scent of self-hatred spews from my bones
and wait for a knife and a fork to come stabbing through my veins
eaten alive from the inside out
swallowed whole by my own misgivings
I wash it all down with the blood of my failures.

I am a jealous bitch.

And I’m jealous of you, and of you, and of you
and I’ll try to turn it around and look up to you
and admire
and use this as fuel to push me to go where I want to,
to let your confidence be my courage
to let your ability be my growth
to let you your light be my sun
but I’m not comfortable in my own skin –
I’m more comfortable in the skin of the bitch I’ve become
because it’s easier than facing the truth
so I see you and want to be you and feel all those things that I lack
but instead I sit back and I say,
“Well, she ain’t shit anyway, I mean
look at her shoes”
as if the fact that I’m wearing Steve Madden leather makes me loveable,
that the strap between my ankle and heel is protection from my treason
I’d like to use it to hang myself.

I am a jealous bitch with nothing to lose
or so I’d like to think because jealousy
is fear of something being taken away

I am a jealous bitch and I hate every breath I take in
but if you’re taking some too
I’ll want to take it from you
and hope that you choke on it

and if you do?
I’ll be jealous of that too

because although I feel I have nothing,
I’m terrified to lose it.

EJZ 04.26.2015


I am
blank slate. I am
empty drum. I am
hunger pang. I am

Who am I?
Am I anything?

It takes every effort
of every sinew
of every muscle in my body,
the concentration
of every nerve,
of every synapse in my brain
just to form a sentence

and I don’t even recognize the voice speaking it.

It must be mine.

Is it mine?
Am I real enough to claim anything?

A hollow shell of an individual –
I never claimed to be whole in the first place.
Don’t push me – I’m tired.
There is no honor, no
no nobility in suffering.

I want to go home
but I don’t have a place in mind.

EJZ 05.01.2015

How does it feel?

Wake up with regret –
I keep my shame locked up
in a cabinet
next to half-drunk,
bottles of wine,
tobacco left on my nightstand,
love letters never received.

Deception is a hell of a good time.

Tastes better the second time around
when I know what I’m coping with.

I sleep with the ghosts
haunting my dreams
with nights I’ve survived to write about.

I could write books
about books
I haven’t written.

How does your throat feel
the morning after you’ve been choked?

How does it feel
to feel
anything –
pain –
through the mellow monotony
you’ve learned to call every day?

How does it feel,
six month delay –
aftershock –
four guns
in the palms
of his hands –
a signature
standing between you
and a grave –
(if you’d even be buried –
just swept under the rug
by his mother
with the rest of the family secrets) –
and you don’t even
care –
you gave up the right to life a long time ago
and really? –
could it really be worse?

How does it feel
the morning after
the first night you felt safe enough to sleep through?

It feels like running,
like prayer, like
drowning –
like holy, like
like death –
like train-wreck,
like savior,
like savor,
like sweet,
like bitter,
like arson,
like air in my lungs, like –
slow down! – too fast,
like first time,
the first time –
you want to forget
but remember –
the truth –
like truth, like
like rainbow, like
passion and fire,
infatuation and
floating on pebbles,
but floating and free.

Deception is a hell of a good time.

It feels like feeling all over again.
It feels like fast forward stuck on rewind.
It feels like a hell of a hell of a time
but it feels
        it feels
         it feels.

EJZ 05.27.2015

A Romanticist’s Dilemma

We hear it as children –
Our mother figures asking our sister figures
whenever they meet any man,

“Oh, does he have a job?
How long til ya married?
How many grandchildren are you gonna give ya motha?
Oh, honey,
how big is his


But I didn’t have anyone to ask me those questions
so now I ask the questions:

Does he move you like a song?
Do you look at him like a piece of art with a reverence for the human spirit and gasp,
“Something created that?”?
Does he fill your mind like that line of impossible prose
too beautiful to write down or ever share
so you keep it locked up in your head
or around your neck
in that locket he gave you for your sixteenth birthday
that became too heavy
and tarnished with
memories and false premises
so you had to take it off
and now
you don’t even really remember what it looks like?

I’m a poet,
I’m a writer,
so it only seems natural
that my list of romanticisms
become a poem
or a novel
or my next

Is it the curse of my father I’ve been looking for someone to save?

Is someone going to save me?
Is someone going to save me?
Is someone going to save me
from this laundry list –
my standards for love that have me doubled over,
by my own impulses?
My attraction to alcoholics,
lost spirits?

The wine is sweet when you don’t know what you’re drinking.

I’m drunk on emotion and I’ll savor every last drop.

Is someone going to save me?

I’m a poet,
I’m a writer,
so it only seems natural

and I find it cathartic
to be grabbed by the waist
and pulled into the lips of a man who has never tasted serenity,
emotional sobriety –
Their taste is all to familiar to me;
I fall into them like a trap.
Gets me every time.

Is someone going to save me?
I’m drunk on emotion and I savor

EJZ 04.23.2015


The beast in our hearts

The darkness behind
the falling rain

We can’t see or hear
the pitter patter,
only feel the cold fire

pulling down to the depths
where it all began
and ends
for those who let it
become them.

is the parasite of man
that turns hearts into hollows,
begs you to follow,
unassuming –
souls for small change.

The burden we’re given
insidiously so,
and though we haven’t asked,
it answers
in the darkness
where it can hide
and creep slowly
until you don’t even know the difference
between your blood
and your tears;
“Cheers!” –
a cup in each hand,
as it drinks each
and draws you in for more,

wringing our spirits out to dry
and soaking them
in heated kerosene
until there is no more.

EJZ 3.3.2015