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Does a poet cut themselves into stanzas or do stanzas cut themselves into a poet? * I am on my knees in a dark closet just like before, where a man who could be disrobed tells me to look to the cross and pray that I change and change to prayer, so I do, chin … Continue reading
Gurgle ink, spit-shine paper, wash in the warmest black until fingerprints fill and hair clumps and lips leave marks like ash in a hearth that could be construed as the chronicles of cavemen, and hope no one remembers your stained teeth reflecting against the well. * Write something just for me that leaves a stranger hoping it was … Continue reading
The bench simmers of forgotten engineering hindsight and heat but the crossed-leg man does not move despite movement around for he is the type to ask you the time before he steals your watch, not to find if you wear a particular brand or if there is a well of gold on your skin but … Continue reading
A journey feels shorter on the way back, which is why a break up may only take seconds after many years. * How befuddling it is to know enough that you are not enough to be enough for enough people, or maybe just one, which includes yourself on days when laundry lines look like ghosts … Continue reading
Lipstick of cigarette smoke isn’t so destructive if she’s smiling and if you mistake the yellow in her teeth for the sun. * Love is yesterday’s unwashed mouth kept for today and reserved for the sloppy saliva of tomorrow. * A relationship depends on not depending on a relationship but instead on the ability to … Continue reading
I had a poem but I forgot it inside your mouth. Years later, when I crumbled into cookies and from them too and when the sun fell more often than it rose and when my hair slipped to gray to nothing, I’m told you spat it out as vomit. * A sun collapses over … Continue reading
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
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