there are times when I am fascinated by politics and the rollicking play of the market is a sort of sweet drug, made into a gladiator fight between the two colored corners of this universe, rushing always into bright contact and history falling away in the process as little glass pieces for children to pick… Continue reading poem: the human glory of political economics
Tag: alone
poem: nostalgia, not contrived
the girl sat in her english class and watched the sky flatten itself against the university window, like even the clouds are desperate to get in and learn critical theory. she pulls her sweater over her fingers and silently sulkily puts an earbud in so she can listen to japanese indie and feel like a… Continue reading poem: nostalgia, not contrived
poem: what do i call this
I guess I don't need to talk to him because I already know everything he would say. I know when he would roll his eyes, and that I would laugh; and I remember the few times I was charming enough to make him laugh; he threw back his head, all of his pretention going up… Continue reading poem: what do i call this
poem: midnight in the dream city
she stood lazily in the shower, watching the drain grow fat with the leftover dreams that come off her like dead skin. she and her friends will go out tomorrow, and make castles out of shotglasses and then knock them over. when she was younger she walked through fields in a red raincoat amazed… Continue reading poem: midnight in the dream city
poem: cabin out in Nowhere
wouldn't it be nice if someone was secretly in love with me--- loner, an under-used word in the poet's dictionary, but it tattoos nicely into her softer eyelids fraying, against her cheeks. against her intellect. wouldn't it be nice if someone found my answering all the univere's questions-- adorable--and not awkward-- the shifting impatient eyes… Continue reading poem: cabin out in Nowhere
poem: again
it started again in her later years, when she had only just declared independence. she sat alone (again) and bit her thumb with the intention of blood. at first it was art class with the good conversations spinning away from her like spanish gold and she was too shy to walk from ceramics to drawing… Continue reading poem: again
poem: all this is [now] redundant
everytime i hear footsteps i think it is [him] but i look up and of course i am wrong he does not belong to me [anymore] so why am i waiting for him to come back to me. there is too much grey in tiled hearts i am just bored i am a female anomaly… Continue reading poem: all this is [now] redundant
poem: foolish games
i won't tell you his name but it's very beautiful still inside my mouth and i could have civilized him and brought that innocence softness of him into everyday candlelight. the places where i go, now, are only places where he smiled at me once but all is fiction and idealized in this locked box… Continue reading poem: foolish games
the last pavilion 