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
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
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.
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
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