Blue Dog Pizza

In places like these, the Christmas lights will always stay up
year round— framing bare trees in fuzzy reddish glowing.
Wishes are wrapped in Gouda and basil and star clouds.
He only likes talking about what is happening now.
I only like talking about what’s happened before.
He asks questions I don’t or won’t answer…
except for one about the old man and his
motorbike parked in the tree shadows.
I say that this might be the last decent
meal we eat on this too long street.
Sometimes there are blue dogs.
There are always wet dogs.
Pine nuts love pineapple.
Bacon loves coconut.
Apple loves soda.
Pluto loves


A List of Things David Should Not Have Said at Fair Bean Coffee

When you called me immature
because I don’t pick up after myself,
you should’ve thought twice— because
you sound like my mother and no one
wants to make out with their mother.

Or you shouldn’t have told me that my hair
would look better a few shades lighter—
because what is that line of bull we are
taught as children about liking people the way
they are or for who they are or whatever?

And maybe telling me that I should
get out of debt was completely unnecessary.
Because, at thirty-five, I am pretty sure
I am very aware of all of the bad things
that can and will result from a poor credit score.

Also, explaining to me for the hundredth time
the ways in which I am ruining my hair:
blow-drying (which I don’t even do),
washing daily (which I don’t even do),
not conditioning every day, touching it, etc…
is perhaps not the best way to begin brunch.

And you totally should not have exclaimed,
“whoa that’s a lot of sugar,” as I scooped
spoonfuls into my coffee, passing judgment
on my sugaring habits. Because, despite
what you think, “whoa,” implies judgment
and is not simply an observation.

I started a new food related tumblr eating at every restaurant on South 1st street in Austin. Two down, tonnes to go: Poems by Bree. Images by David.


El Mercado

World Peace Through Tex-Mex—
the brightly colored menu boasts;
though things are often more complex.

The broken mirror mural reflects
the way speech can dissolve like ghosts,
whispering, world peace through Tex-Mex.

David hates bar lime, and when he objects,
I remind him this place is three stars at most—
though things are often more complex.

Four dollar Mexican martinis yield effects                
that linger and bubble like foam on seacoasts—
World peace through Tex-Mex.

Our vagrant waiter brings our checks,
as the family with the newborn toasts.
Though things are often more complex,

tonight, it’s a simple matter of prospects—
And for a minute I believe, almost,                                       
in the possibility of world peace through Tex-Mex,
though things are often more complex.