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I had flowers today where pollen fornicated my fingers, but a butterfly came, flashed its failed feathers, and robbed the nectar. * Hold a poem against me for I wish to hold you against a poem. * The city crawls across the earth spreading people who spread more people into the same city that coughs … Continue reading
If you fit human history into a poem you find that anything that has happened has happened because of love and anything that didn’t was because of love too, which leaves you wondering who made you write the poem in the first place. * 3 am creeps finding me lonely in bed listening to the … Continue reading
Poetry is sad and starving for everything is left in the barenaked spaces of the lines that flirt and twist each other’s hair into knots that can only be combed out with long kisses and shared breaths and deep, sweet sighs yet the next line comes too quick and tearing, leaving the knot untied and the … Continue reading
Are you sure you want to buy those she asks as she passes me a pack with pictures of people on the front who look like me if I were shrivelled, exhausted little cigarette stubs that had trouble breathing which I do because I don’t answer but instead look at her while she looks at me … Continue reading
She looks down as I leave not seeing that I look up and notice that the white birch in her living room with its fake birds glued on the branches, stuck and immobile, and its fallen leaves swept away and the rest left dusty, bends away from the sunlight. * My mouth is dry while … Continue reading
She took my poems out from my fingers and spread them across my lips so that each letter I smeared she smeared onto me first with her look or her heels or her cheeks or her self. I’m stained. * Covers fall in between us and she has never been more distant. Is the bed … Continue reading
You are always useful, even when bloated with the dread and emptiness that makes you crawl outside, find a utility pole, clawing up and up with fingernails uncut and hair adrift like the logs you saw swimming in the ocean when you were six, sawed redwoods with no life jackets and no branches and leaves, just like … Continue reading
Give me prose, short, nasty, crumbling, while I wish for the rocketry of poetry. * The third law states That for every apple There is a tree And a man who Sits underneath it with A belly full of Fruit that grows into Seeds of thought that Leave him wondering what Body is pulling him. * … Continue reading
I have lost a train for I never built a track – Only a tunnel that ate up the light inside. * I birth universes from the biggest bangs and the smallest ones too. I create us with our poems, stories, and books. I shape art for future generations for my shape is art of … Continue reading
How have you changed? I still write at 0200, which is a sign that I might never go to sleep. I still sleep, which is a sign that I might never wake. I still wake and still prefer the lilacs in the rain and the summer’s yellow paint over a laundry line dotted with red underwear. … Continue reading
Mizpellt wurdz 