Collaboration with Todd Gronsdahl #tbt #2007 

I made a Facebook page for the design studio:


Sestina for Hooters
Some of it was expected— the girls,                         
in their Tamara panty hose— sickly orange
legs, the same color as the buffalo wings,    
serving cheap beers to bores on sad afternoons.
We knew about the clichéd booty baring uniforms—
What we didn’t expect were tables full of families.
Or the entire softball team, and their families,
eating like this was a place you should take little girls—
fake breasts parading in too tight uniforms,
people with bad taste swallowing piles of orange,
while they drink away their summer afternoons,
claiming, “I only come here for the wings.”
As if by using the pathetic pretense of wings,
you could erase that fact that families
are not meant to spend their Sunday afternoons
in sexist chain restaurants, admiring girls
who have no problem being seen wearing orange
or working a job that requires hot pants as a uniform.
The iconic owl stares from each perky chest with uniform,
creepy, “O” eyes that seem to say, “eat more wings.”
And suddenly, I feel like I’m being swallowed by orange.
A woman in a wheelchair smokes outside as families
stare plaster-eyed at football, ignoring the girls,
who don’t even bother to flirt for tips in the afternoon.
We both agree that we’ve had better afternoons,
as we note the nuances of the Hooters uniforms
worn in the photos of the international pageant girls.
Your burger is so bad that you can’t eat it, and perhaps wings
were actually the way to go.  I mean, all of these families,
seem happy, their fingers and faces all slathered in orange.
And really, what’s so bad about orange?
It’s the color that adorns late summer afternoons
and recalls those lazy days spent outside with our families—
Except that this is not the shade of the uniform.
It’s not even a lively hue that sometimes peppers parrot wings—
It’s the unfortunate tint of a too tanned Jersey girl.
And I cannot accept this orange, even if it is a uniform.
It’s like a bad Wings song blasting on a too hot afternoon—
Music adored by clichéd girls who feel rejected by their families.


Cento for Jovitas
Surrounded by coming and going aromas,
cinnamon eyes celebrate.
A marriage of substances—
they are this night, this music.
Slime sparkles in the pool— in the streets
papers and leaves are chased
with resentment.
Kiwi begins to shine and throb—
the juice unsullied and glazed.
I love you like the sharp tang
of fermentation, like blissful pulp,
oozing, bittersweet.
We linger after dinner, vaguely
talking— spellbound
by the intermittent noise of dishes.
(Lines from: Ramón López Velarde, Víctor Terán, Coral Bracho and Octavio Paz)


Torchy’s Tacos

The trailer park simmers—
Mr. Pink slices
strips of darkness
by the crossroads.

A ranch hand scrambles,
marinating in trashy
love, wedged between
Jamaican breasts.

Republican jerks scratch
dirty puppies, drinking
before breakfast.

Sanchez brushes
against her skirt,
shredding tender fires.

Saturday’s treats dip
Into delicious choices—
sugar or chocolate
monks or Democrats
hot or slow roasted.


Little Mexico

Kids bear roses
in the menu photo.
Margaritas only frozen.
Check slow.

"Fucking magnets, how do they work?"


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.