wet sludge, and his face, and fingers -- are damp I am not the one who beats all the heads in, I am not the dregs -- stretchedout, across all my life -- it cannot always come back to this. skinis sloughing off, collects under his nails, gathers at the wrists andcongests into lines at… Continue reading poem: end of year
poem: late july
a deep buffering thing, rolling in --- I have mylegs clefted tight, driving, I describethe land as the armpit of the earth flopped intothe arm of the earth, freckled and brown againstflat blue sky: porcelain tile squeezed behindhills, chipping fresco. where are the Experiences where are the Summer Experiences; I reread books I first read… Continue reading poem: late july
poem: In the dark the mind runs on like a devouring machine, the only thing awake in the universe.
on the novel White Noise how effective is fear of death as a theme, if I,two-year Catholic, have previously feared Oblivion but neverdeath: or are these the same? material death, body in shreds: my wish is tree planted in rib-cage, for thismy surviving family members must fight the funeral establishment, sayno chemicals dousing up my… Continue reading poem: In the dark the mind runs on like a devouring machine, the only thing awake in the universe.
poem: surname
really, the world is a small thing -- I was an I seven years ago, now I am also an I: rutted littlehalf-done dreams, the newest iteration blastedthrough head, now I have someoneto tell about it. growing younger -- I swear I keep wanting oblivion: blasted down bytoo big force, fertility or death. taking an… Continue reading poem: surname
poem: conclusion
old man Rodya, or at least the bent-over version Sonya retrievesfrom the railway station, neck shortened into fur coat, handsopen secrets or frost-lite spiderbites splayed overher traveling coat, as he steadies himself against her, says wellwhat is there to say. train sneaks in, awning over them, dawningof little smile: she says, well, hopefully a great… Continue reading poem: conclusion
poem: incredible retelling of an otherwise normal saturday
Alyssa adjusts her jacket; tweed, tiehole, fresh out of normal bad-childhood nowhere, ready to differentiate between graduate programs whichoffer training -- paid for -- and those which, essentially making you an employee of the university -- stipend you, more or less, from here throughend of time, hoisted around the wet trees and the green-gray-bluewhich knocks… Continue reading poem: incredible retelling of an otherwise normal saturday
poem: summer, again, in scheduled weeks
five year plan -- I would like to be better I will be Iwill be better; gingham tuck and plans for shelf behindcouch for line of plants -- rosemary, basil, what next; the pillsfrom the internet naturopath are low-dose opioid blockersand will rearrange my insides enough that I can, willproduce life -- tuck of curtain… Continue reading poem: summer, again, in scheduled weeks
poem: girl writer
there are No Good White Men -- you can only keepthe turn, knees tucked in, i got accepted to the dream literaryMFA took the train into Brooklyn had a latte and half pistachio pastry, brushed the crumbs off, I hope the genre-fiction writers know their place, reading Claire Lispector, keep the cover out while finishing,… Continue reading poem: girl writer
poem: lost in translation
I arrived in Tokyo very late there were no three-pound bags of cherries being sold in summer sunshine undertwenty-third and second street so instead I ate convenience store foodwith my hands under the haze and the lights dropped out the other actor wouldn't accommodate me so I turned inwards and lookedat myself under the three-track… Continue reading poem: lost in translation
poem: April Is The Cruelest Month
bite off neurosis, This Time I'll Make It -- standingat the front of the check-out line, lime kombucha mozzarellasome kinda Raw, this Time i'll make it -- keeping timeinside yourself, inside your chest, counting ribsthe boss is not your mother she is not your father she isnot coming to get you in the divorce: why… Continue reading poem: April Is The Cruelest Month
the last pavilion 