into overactive lungs.
I can hear the sea
weather beaten rocks
and she is laughing.
Anne Sexton is on my nightstand
when I tell you
I am too tired
to get out of bed.
My bones are damp with rain
and heavy with ache,
and it storms every day now;
such is the nature of autumn
I listen to the raindrops,
One was pale skin and freckles,
hair as copper as the pennies
you’d pressed into your palms,
sweat on your chest, fogged car windows,
making it home by curfew.
Always PG13, always wondering if you were enough
to be loved, always wondering why he didn’t
hunger for your body
Ambulance screams past the diner
where I am waiting tables, waiting
for a better chance at something,
Someone listening to their police scanners
tells me it’s a gunshot wound. I assume
I don’t know them....
when he pries open
your legs, like a burglar
pries open a locked door,
do not fight him.
If you are in this position,
it is your own fault that
you have left yourself
When you come clean about it
in an outcry, you will be dissected
like a frog on the...
People used to wait for me with bated breath.
This was when my hair was long and beautiful,
when I used to keep longing between my teeth
and the sounds of the ocean were tucked away in my cheek
and when you kissed me,
you said I was saltwater wonder.
I was a sad story on the newsstand,...
When your husband
tells you that your
body is still beautiful,
because of how you sacrificed yourself
for the bundle of blankets laying
and laughing between you on your bed,
do not cut him off, do not chop down
his words. He is...
I am summer freckle-faced
bright, wet, moss-eyed moments
and sleeping winter bones.
After 9/11, they stitched patriotism into our spines
and slapped away our fingers when we tried to touch
the incision site. We were only fourth grade nothings,
still malleable, so we learned to heal around shrapnel splinters
by always expecting that brown hands on a bomb
would dismantle us....
I tend to make a home of people
while people make a home of me
and we are eternally matryoshka dolls,
nesting in another's bones.
On a cold, dark evening
You'll never take my wings
Nothing so demeaning
I am crocus
On the verge
Exorcise the mistakes
Of my parents in small takes
The rain a reminder to me
To always be patient in my dreams
I am crocus
On the verge...
Spiritual wank of sorrow
Drown in your flirtation tank
Money like all gods is false
Take something old
Sell it as new
Never boogie voogie
They fizz tang
Peng the shit out of you
Depth and breadth and scope
Bleed into me.
I gladly carry.
I could run the tips of my fingers across the faultlines of your life for hours,
lips touching imperfections and anomalies alike
Marveling the beauty of it all.
Curling my hands in the mire of life as you made it
Trying to find...
she sits in grey wind wondering how the world still
knows she is alive, or dead? the fumes of old nocturnes
smoke demons in familiar twists. she hums nothing well...
good:: the same russian doll or christ like cull.
she told herself none or all of...
Often I wake.
To a great distance, I focus my gaze
through the window out past the gate,
between the cloud and shadow's sway...
There is a shape that moves in grey.
Something like long robes from an olden age,
draped over some great, grotesque frame.
A Tuesday morning
Living life as a dream
And a whirl
As soon as we judge
The art is fucked
To a crow
Like a post-orgasmic Bowie lyric
You're no saint but
You're still a sweetheart
Klitschko taught me patience
Death taught me to love...
if i go on, out of sheer buoyancy,
the heart will decide to die
at the point of contact; immediate
and then some,how shimmer apocalyptic:light
that i know damn well is blindness.
so i keep still.
if i seem closer now, like white words on sky,
There was once a time,
I could rid, all I had gathered,
and speak to the trees.
To the wind, to the water
to the sun, to the soil.
I knew their names.
. . .
When the wind would sing,
pines would sigh remembrance
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