part one

I told the boy that when I want to write, it is a feeling in my throat. A physical push forward. I am a girl, but I can think of it like a metaphorical erection, the semen coming out of my mouth. It is not something I want to do, sometimes, and sometimes it is.… Continue reading part one

writing: literary suicide note

There was no newness to anything anymore. She sat in the house and waited for people to be finished; she sat on the couches and watched the clouds pass over the fields outside the windows; the windows were perpetually dirty, smudged sometimes when the cats shoved their homesick faces against the glass and mostly smudged… Continue reading writing: literary suicide note

poem: the view from my living room window

some people light small fires—I, am lit. someday i will be won and not waiting: it is an old refrain, told by older woman; in the still afternoon i watch three sparrows circle my childhood, the greens glowing yellow, and i think— there is something waiting out there, there is something roaring.

poem: East Egg

there is a green light shining in the outside of myself, I am a woman, twenty years old. I would like to say I am living in Paris, waking up to men who keep dried flowers pressed between Proust, their lips wet before the cigarette and after sex; when I take my black umbrella and… Continue reading poem: East Egg

poem: unclean

leaning over the rooftop into her music she lets men come and stop like death cabs, she is not finished, her art goes into her pillowcase; she lies awake afterwards and asks her lover— (the plaster wall with the lip holes) hey, what if I wake up and there is no Paris, no bohemian cafe… Continue reading poem: unclean