I have a tiny orange cat

And a beautiful

White Arabian horse.

Soft eyes and

Warm fur to 

Calm me down.

I won’t be needy

When someone

Comes around. 

If I ever 

Go on a date

I will casually

Watch

His facial expressions,

Trying to guess if a delayed laughter

Is a sign of boredom

Or nervousness. 

I won’t just PLAY it cool

I will not be needy,

I promise!

Because that is the utmost sin.

Women think I eat men for breakfast,

But no! I’m mostly vegan these days

And I want to want to want to be good.

At Trader Joe’s 

A guy who works there

Told me he loved my white frames.

 - I can hardly pull my black ones off,

 I can’t stop staring at you!

At check out

The red-haired cashier

Asked me what I’m doing

This weekend.

I told him all about my white equine

While he was scanning my veggies.

He seemed impressed.

I don’t know why

Men seem to want me

Now.

What changed?

Is it my ruffled mane?

The smell of dust and sweat?

The farmer’s tan?

Can they tell that

I’m toughening up?

Wait till I bleach my hair

White.

584 people rated me highly

On OkCupid

And I would know who they are

If I bought an A-list subscription.

Maybe the man I’m supposed to love

Is among them

But probably not.

What they don’t know

Is that I am a mess.

I almost missed my flight

To DC yesterday:

I sprained an ankle

And barely escaped

The wrath of a taxi driver.

I’ll be in New York soon.

The Ivy League student

I dated there,

Whose parents spend millions

On horses and carriages

Believed I looked

Wonderfully

Gentle,

Confident

And calm.

Which proves

That nobody knows

Anything.

Yesterday I was grooming my horse

When a guy asked me if I was married

-I used to be.

-You have a horse! He is your husband now!

If he’s right

It’s just the next stage

Of the disease that turns women

Into cat ladies.

There’s really nothing wrong with this,

I can embrace it

Since cantering

Feels a lot like sex.

But who am I kidding?

What riding teaches

Is the need for perfect partnerships.

I still want a man.

In my dream

Last night

My body was wrapped around

A red-haired god.

We fit like puzzle pieces.

Somebody like me

With an autoimmune disease,

With a harmless thyroid

Stalked 

By confused 

White cells,

Should avoid stress.

I lost my car keys today

And I lost my mind as well.

I need a vacation from this person

That I am.

I found them both hours later:

The keys and my mind

Were hanging out in the trash can

Playing cards,

Listening to disco music.

They looked up,

I looked down,

Which reminds me of the baby bird

I failed to save the other day.

I knew I should have taken him home.

I failed

I failed

I failed.

Today I got up at an ungodly hour

To be tested as an Italian teacher

For mostly blonde kids.

Silvia would teach me the drills.

In the car that would take us to the park

She started explaining everything.

Her accent felt like home.

-You are from Rome.

-Yes! 

-Well, I’m from Rome as well.

-What neighborhood?

-Balduina.

-Noooooo! Me too!

Our mothers are

Shopping in the same supermarket

Right now,

Evaluating chicken thighs

And the freshness of arugula,

While we sing silly songs

And get hugged by slightly neurotic,

Yet wonderful,

Five-year-olds,

My memories of home

Fading.

Is there anything

More delicious

Than raspberries?

Some men are

But I have forgotten

Almost everything

About those penis-equipped

Beings.

My life revolves around

Highways

Horses

And women.

In the equine universe

Men are rare.

When they exist

They live secluded lives

Like the Wizard of Oz.

All these female creatures

Are quite lovely.

Well, almost all of them.

Not everyone gets

What I’m trying to do

So I get some bitterness,

Some jealousy,

Some disgusted looks.

But in the last three days,

Looking for horses,

I met three valkyries.

I could write a novel

About each of them.

My landlord has girlfriend problems

Which means I have to wait

A little longer

To be freed from this heat.

Once the AC comes

My brain will work again,

My chest will fill with love

To be spread

In the four cardinal directions.

When I play my bass

I have trouble keeping the tempo

And I hardly know anything at all.

Do I still deserve love?

Men seemed to desire me once

Now everyone’s scared

Or jaded

Or doesn’t understand

All these things that I am.

I don’t mind this loneliness

Because it makes me angry

And anger is good.

Oh,

I see.

PMS.

I must have lost track of time.

So I might not be losing my mind.

But then I look at the evidence

And wonder.

Living in a city

Where you have no friends

To speak of.

Your first boyfriend

(The first lover,

The one you were with for five years)

Unfriending you on Facebook

Because you expressed surprise

At his change of status.

Your ex-roommate’s hate.

Men whose interest

Is inversely proportional

To yours.

A woman who treats you like a horse

(Minus the petting).

Being an artist

Means pissing everybody off

And dying alone.

My 4th of July

Has been so hideous

It feels right.

Self-pity fits me like a summer dress.

104 degrees.

After visiting piglets

And newly hatched chicks

I find refuge at Starbucks,

Sweat freezing on my skin,

Drinking drinks that will shorten my life,

Watching a man scratch his ass.

I’m wearing a blue shirt,

A sweater with red and white stripes.

I realized that as I was locking the door.

Let them think I care.

Truth has fled.

Behind lovers’ eyes

Lies the usual thirst for power.

As they leave

I wrap my tail

Around diamonds and gold.

I told him that 

Honky Tonk might smell like meat.

When I pass it on my bike

(The black-and-pink one

He gave to me

When mine got stolen)

I see signs

That say

"We loooove pork!"

He said it wouldn’t.

It did.

We talked about horses

And cowboys.

Later he took me to his friend’s house

Where a bunch of kinksters

Were getting to know each other

Over wine.

They were the most lovable creatures

I’ve ever met,

Which I didn’t expect.

When people feel accepted

For what they are

There is no need for anxiety

Or games.

I’m holding a picture

Ahmad took of me

On my birthday.

It’s me from behind.

I know that ungraceful back

Only from home tapes,

A clumsy twelve-year-old wearing

Long gloves 

And my grandmother’s dress,

Playing the hostess

And failing.

My schoolmates are

Wearing costumes,

They move their eyes

Nervously,

They stuff their mouths

With bread,

Impatient to go home.

When nobody’s around

I feel relieved,

I have some peace at last,

And time,

So much time!

To do all those wonderful things

I’ve always wanted to do.

But all I do

is sleep,

Eat,

Check my e-mail.

For my birthday

I received three bottles

Of red wine,

A basil plant,

And I will buy myself a horse.

I’m dreaming of a silver roan

Tennessee Walker.

We’ll have similar diets

And needs,

Safety,

Comfort,

Fun.

Who needs a man

When you’re riding 1000 pounds

Of Warmth and strength?

I certainly don’t.

I might be giving up sex

Entirely.

The thing itself is never as good

As you remember it to be,

Your body a baby-making machine.

I’ll trade having a boring man

Panting

Above me

In my freshly laundered sheets

For some serious galloping

In the wind.

When I feel these surges

I should sit down and write.

Instead I lie on pillows

And watch TV

Because it’s easier

Than riding the wave of clarity.

I spent the morning

Watching three-year-olds

Learn Spanish.

They looked at me

With big speckled eyes.

One of them hugged me,

He’d never seen me before

But he was my friend.

It was almost too much to bear.

At 5 I turned 33,

It’s already the 23rd

In Rome.

I cried in the shower,

It doesn’t count

When you’re already wet.

At sunset
Chicago was

Blessed

With a Roman breeze.

I can’t be on Twitter.

I’d be reading Matthew’s tweets

More often than now.

Once a month is more than enough,

When doing so confirms

What I suspected:

He loves Kendra

More than he ever loved me.

Or maybe it’s just different.

But their love is so disturbingly public

It turns you into a voyeur,

A cat lady sans cat,

Watching mediocre porn.

Was there ever a time

When I truly felt ecstatic about someone?

Anxiety isn’t love.

I went on Facebook

And unfriended Chris.

I needed some internet hygiene.

At night I often dream

Of camaraderie

Rather than sex.

Sam reads my words

From time to time

(Hello, ex-friend)

I know this

Because he lives in his studio

Now

And that studio was

Very briefly

Mine too.

I had labelled it 

On StatCounter.

If I met him

He would squint

And turn away,

That’s why

I never go to Logan square.

My old bike waits for me

There, forlorn.

I’ll never know

If he wants to read about himself

(Here, you’re welcome)

Or if he has regrets.

It doesn’t matter.

I am braiding my hair,

Waiting for somebody

To sweep me off my feet.

Everything else

Means nothing.

Today I taught my last 

Italian class of the season.

In my locker I found the novel

I thought I had lost.

My Margaret Atwood,

The one with a note from my father

Scribbled on the first page.

I had an identical copy in my bag

Because I’m used to losing

And replacing things,

A brief mourning

Followed by action.

I am getting better and better

At this.

I got home,

Locked my bike,

Slipped on the sidewalk.

My right ankle twisted and burning,

Blood on my left foot.

It’s fine,

This body is frail,

Soon thirty-tree,

Accepting defeat.

Driving a car

In order to ride a horse

Is one of those things

That don’t make any sense at all,

But fighting them is futile.

It’s like going to see Prometheus

And complaining that the dialogue is dumb

And the actress is not Sigourney Weaver.

I suspect they just cast the woman

Who had the best tummy.

Tummy is such a terrible word,

Only slightly more bearable than yummy.

Forgive me for using it.

Driving a car makes me crazy

With anxiety,

I took the edge off

With an alcoholic drink

I call The Vegan Cowgirl.

My vocabulary suffered.

Summer has its summer smells

In Chicago,

But they’re all the wrong ones.

Yesterday I went to the Italian Cultural Institute

To hear an Italian journalist speak

About his coast-to-coast train trip.

I wanted to tell him

That I’m about to do something

Similar.

Except I won’t have a five-person crew

And the budget of a tv production.

I will be alone with my horse.

But I’m shy,

And I felt weird:

I was surrounded by loud Italians

Peeking at my notebook,

Eating meaty pizza.

I rode my bike back home

And made 

Tomato-garlic-basil pasta.

Blues

You gotta hold on to your anger,

Hold on to your anger,

Baby.

You gotta hold on to your anger,

Tie it to your finger,

Baby.

‘Cause if you ever forget,

He’ll try to slit your throat,

He’ll poison all your plants, 

Relatives and goats,

And when he’s wearing your toes,

As a crown on his head,

And when when he’s fucked your best friend,

Your poodle and your horse,

And he’s sent Planet X,

On a collision path with Earth,

Don’t call me,

Don’t call me,

Don’t call me,

Don’t call me.

Unless

You wanna play video games.

I am thirsty.

I am writing this

Before drinking

Because it will feel

That much better

When I finally do.

It is a warm night.

I stopped in every Pilsen artsy store

Where I munched on salty things

And bought white gloves

And maps of Italy,

Oklahoma,

The United States of America.

Really,

I was looking at people

While pretending to need

A cowboy hat.

A guy talked to me

But I gave him a hard look.

I’m like a horse who knows

He is a prey.

My survival instinct kicks in

And I’m back to my teenage self,

Aloof.

The first signs of my period.

Very welcome,

This month.

Oddly enough,

As soon as I relax,

I imagine myself

Pregnant,

Walking on grass.

There are animals

Around me

Enjoying the sun,

And everybody’s hair is red.

Maybe I’m giving myself a break,

Making space for things

That might be nice.

I don’t really know,

I never like anything long enough,

Not even fantasies.

Did you know

That not everybody

Feels like they’re responsible

For earthquakes,

Wars,

And the slow death of the sun?

Some people

Are quite content,

They draft their five-year plan

Sipping a latte at Starbucks.

It’s nothing new,

I love some drama.

To satisfy that urge

I should probably 

Join guerrillas in a jungle,

Any jungle,

Fighting random evil,

Falling in love with bearded

Heroes,

Wrapping beans and rice

In a tortilla while I sing

My songs of hope and sorrow.

I wouldn’t last long,

I’m too soft.

I suspect

I’m all talk.

The bourgeois version of 

This noble destruction

Is pursuing unworthy boys

And romantic dreams

Of solitary adventures,

My horse and me.

Maybe a harmonica!

Giving up comfort

And support

And honest smiles.

Because at least

I will have something

To write

About.

An hour ago I was just having a bad day.

You know,

The heartless

Trivialities

Of life,

Making my breathing

Shallow.

But thirty minutes ago

I was informed I had been fooled again.

What changes is never the core.

Only the color of leaves,

The name of a city,

The length of my hair or his.

Since he gives tattoos now

I should at least 

Ask him a last favor.

Carve this reminder

On the wrist of the one who

Perpetually unlearns:
“Valentina,

Don’t answer your phone

Don’t open your door

Or I’ll find a way to destroy you.
C."

I am all out of love

 - Or rather -

I’m past deceiving myself

Into thinking

That my desire is love.

I’ll stop using that word,

I’ll leave it to more generous souls.

What am I but a beast

Than needs food,

Shelter,

Rest and attentions?

I got a tan

Playing with horses 

Yesterday.

I navigate smiles

And humility

Plotting for survival.

Beyond mere existence,

Of course.

I’m used to comfort,

Organic groceries,

A room of my own,

Varied entertainment.

I will fight for it

But not too hard.

If you don’t like me

I might just let myself die

Here, painlessly.

At least I have this,

My clean slate.

A clear goal,

One hundred words

And a sense of accomplishment.

Later I will do my laundry,

Smell the cheap soap.

Mexican TV in the background.

There are Important Things To Do,

Instead I heat some soup

And think about 

Sam,

Chris,

Eric,

Jim,

Adrian,

John,

Bruno, 

Jacques,

Tom, 

Shane,

Matthew,

Samuel,

Andrea,

Ramon,

Christoffer,

Liborio,

Lucio,

Emanuele,

Valerio,

Federico.

Each had something to teach

But their lessons mostly

cancel each other out,

Unless we’re good at paradoxes

And embody the Tao

Instead of just digging the idea

Like an aging hippie.