Monday, May 22, 2017

chase you into the west wing and 
lock your ghost into a room
conveniently located inside my fingertips.

do not let anyone see, do not let her 

see, do not speak 
of the specter pacing. forget 
the room, forget the finger tips, 
dead weight, a phantom limb, you still
fuck me with her hand sometimes and hold me
with her body sometimes and possessed,
i wake guilty.
it has been a year and i have done
pretty well biting my tongue.
crawl away with my lion woman, dappled with freckles. 
warm love, good love, easy like honey.

i have been holding my words like
fumbling stacks of firewood, 
in my dreams we are burning, 
we are boiling. 

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

you're waiting to hear about the windows

in the farmhouse
you used to dream of 

and if the saran wrap proved true during the rainstorm.
if something has
leaked in or leaked out, if the mist is trapped
inside the glass
or just hanging on your stoop like
my fingers are longer now so i 
wear more rings to weigh them down, 
i'm speaking
to the opposite wall again,
a one sided conversation
directed at the bedroom.
she treats me well, kisses me straight, 
and that is good, stalking the property line like
"this will do just fine."

perhaps we cannot smell blood this time because
no one is bleeding
and that is good.
your soft safe canopy love,
is it everything you dreamed
when you were young?

Sunday, April 30, 2017


paint indifference over my body like red shellac, 
like dipping into 
candy apple sugar.
can you feel the hesitation knotted in my stomach? 
can you feel yourself
inside of me?
we are not too different
you and i.

when i see a picture on the internet of two lions 
i think of you.
not because of greygold mane or the sweat beaded
on your stomach 
but because of retracted claws and yowl, 
mewling kittens,
battering rams 
and you holding onto me like a lifejacket.

when i see two rats on the subway tracks
tearing each other apart, i think of you 
and i
tearing each other apart.
hold my sex in your cupped palm
like holy water.
lap at me with your lion tongue,
i will be as hard as candy apple,
twice as sweet.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

terra preta

the dogs, the dogs,
tiny rips to the bottom of my stomach and i know
enough not to trust anything that does not immediately
come with bared teeth.
the problem is
you come immediately with bared teeth
and it does not frighten me.
i know what it is to be bitten.

like an apple, baby,  i guess this means you have taken something
from inside of me.
intimacy as a civil war, which is to say 
that i care enough to revolt.
we sit on your bed and eat cake, 
     the city
     burns outside.

you like girls who are easy to swallow,
malleable in mouth, ones who melt on your tongue.
consumed, glittering,
i know enough to keep you hungry,
even if it means i also starve.
the villagers in rebellion, 
our fingertips caked with ash, 
manna and rain water, terra preta, 
find me buried with fish bones 
and charcoal
in your backyard, let me in through the screen door 
and wash the mud off with your hair, 
     terra preta
     dead soil turned fertile
     by hands.

i am good at broken things,
have i warned you of this?
     i am not a garden.
     i am a maelstrom,  
do you know what i do?
i come back from the dead.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

"why don't you ever let me be gentle with you?"

we have been playing this new game lately, 
the one where we are nice to each other. 
defense mechanisms lay 
dissected on the bedside table next to your glasses
and i can no longer remember 
intimacy as a weapon.

we have been playing this new game lately, 
the one where i spend the night 
and do not disappear even once.

so we have nice sex
and i let you inside me without your anger, i smooth the bedsheets
in my sternum, adjust pillows, i let you
simmer into me slow. 
you look soft.
you slide soft.
i arch,
feel like mother earth swallowing you up.
like fertile ground,
like female ground.
  we brew peach tea and i 
throw the shutters open,  
air the house out.

Friday, March 31, 2017

i had a dream you died.

i screamed
at the memorial, collapsed, crumbled, i was wearing a 
Disney T-shirt and 
nag champa incense permeated the room. it was half 
opium den and half high school
auditorium and
moratorium and your face plastered on projector, aromatic haze, the kind of breathing
which is not breathing, the kind of nightmare
without monsters.

they carried me out,
a drunken party guest,
a mourning village,
a room full of strangers, 
and me, tearing my clothes,
a weeping stranger.

Friday, March 24, 2017

what can be said about the heavy snow and conversations 
weighted on eyelashes?
what can be said about the red stripe scar of forgiveness 
and how it itches with the healing, 
how it aches with the changing of the seasons and
how it burns, still, of course.

relearn how to rehold hands like a language 
grown rusty without use, feel the way the tongue fumbles 
over words. 
how new love 
is a combination of old love
rearranged into new shapes. 

how i introduce my eyes to a pair of folded
round glasses on the bedstand, 
how i know it is arriving, 
how i knew it must.

Friday, March 17, 2017

her knuckles are always dry and cracked
from too much washing.
i rub lotion into them and whisper
about lakes and mountains and the process of 
being so wet that you become the water. tell her
"you make me so wet that i become the water"
before sneaking back into the night, too scared to expose 
my carapaces, these baby teeth, this
shell, cracked. 
i worry 
she would not want to 
crawl inside, whisper
"i want you to crawl inside"

she makes me sign a contract in her own blood to 
spend the night, spread across her stomach, finger marks
on the inside of thighs and she signs her letters as
with no name, 
just love
with no name.

Friday, March 3, 2017

it's like
someone pulled the carpet out from me except 
the floor is also made of carpet.
i string together 12 of my babyteeth and call it 
a necklace, promise it'll keep you safe
and i nest in the spaces between your
baby, every single step, you're gonna
take me

everything tastes like a starburst, tastes like blue raspberry
slushies and old books and it's all
filled with so many 
goddamn honeybees
and goddamn popsicles
and goddamn fireworks
and goddamn riverways
and other things 
that keep me up at night, 
you keep me up at night.

the cardiologist

it's like i 
swallowed 10 matches and you're holding the 11th 
right against my throat
and the smile is caught like a cough and i 
don't trust these ropes. don't trust the ladder of the ribs
pushing through your back.
you're tracking my pulse, you're listening with 
stethoscope to sternum
for your own voice
echoing in the atrium, hiding in aorta,
don't lie to me,
you hear it beat.

your hands are like
CPR and your mouth is 
2 CCs of adrenaline straight to my collar bone, 
you kiss the shell of my ear and press 
yours against my heart, press
your paddles and

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

play the game where you are wolf and i am
play the game where my fingers are made of sharks and
you are a holy
mess between your legs, Virgin Mary- i am
cumming and you are coming
over to touch the softest parts of me. jesus fuck, twisting
arteries like hair in fist, twisting fist like manually
jump-starting a pulse. jesus
when i was in catholic school i used to 
look up at the big jewel windows, 
think about the holy water pooling into my hand and how
you could make something to worship out of me. jesus fuck,
how i cock back your jaw and how you 
take me in your mouth like communion. jesus, i am
baptized into this fucking, i am devoured and beheaded and kneeling
kneeling in front of you, 
take my head
for your silver plate.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017


Sunshine died in January,

the first time i lost something
i was supposed to protect.
the first time this bible of recovery 
and i sat with my broken religion, 
and tried to make sense of the pieces 
like sea glass that used to fit together, i swear, used to hold 
she deserved more than it, deserved to be shrouded in daisies not
cigarette cellophane in penn station or grand central or whatever attic
america stores her unneeded things.

the xerox memorial flyer is cheap,
bisected by toner lines and faint. her face turned
contrast against white, i suppose that should hold a metaphor. 
the public library lets you use the copier for free,
i suppose that should also hold a metaphor. 
it is so easy to forget,
this is a person, this is a person, 
there is no Sunshine in January.

winter is allowed to be very long and difficult, 
winter things grow best when it is cold.


i do not understand the birth of fireflies,

let me pretend to be a recycled poet instagramming chunked typewriter ink,
her smile is like a flower. the rain is gentle fingers,
let me count the ways
i think you're so cool
and i don't understand it, this language feels swollen on my tongue now,
feels stumbled and antique and good.
speaking of tongues,
i wanna show you something.
see, the way you looked back there, all faded freckles and eyelashes,
you seemed like an awfully inviting road to get stuck on.
when i say that i don't understand the birth of fireflies i mean
when do they start to glow?
i wanna make you pancakes
and i wanna make you confused too.

these green roots,
these kickup feelings,
your knuckles covered in ash and somewhere
deep in my chest,
there's a church fire raging.
all the people gather on their front lawns,
they watch with the orange glow cast on their face, silent,
they're watching the flames,
they're holding hands,
they're holding hands.

Monday, February 20, 2017

how can the world 
contain so much
how does it not bruise
and soften like a peach.
taste like a peach, 
pick a space on my shoulder blade
decide it is the start
of where i was touched.
decide it is ripe. 

the honeybees under the tablecloth 
stilled and pheromone drunk, all wanting. 
at the wet peak of heaven, i think of your long hair dipped in ink
bleeding into me, 
pick a space on my shoulder blade
decide it is the start. 
also, real quick, 
what science project is this?
are you searching for the carnage?
it's not hidden.

the bathtub is stained blue and

it is spring,
i seem to survive everything.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

inverted midas

everything touched turns to
body crumpled like a hundred dollar bill
at the bottom of the stairs. 
her head growing golden 
and heavy in my hands, her eyes
carot'd, the smears on the tile 
plated. she's got 
treasure running down her face now and
i've never seen such a fortune 
at one time so, naturally, it haunts me. 

my fingertips laden with coin;
i slide my hands in my pockets and 
those turn gold too. 
i walk down the street with the weight of them, 
both of them.
death won't stop stalking the back property line, all pacing and
i have tried to live my life avoiding blood but
it is everywhere,
in the garden, 
inside of other people.

like a pool of treasure 
at the bottom of the stairs.

Friday, January 13, 2017

something clean, white, big, 
something as large as it needs to be.
see, i've been 
hibernating myself into a bear,
been hibernating myself into an envelope with
zipcode like safe code, four stamps and your saliva still
hidden under the glue. 
they do things
real different up there. 

new york is a castle of salt 
all florescent sex store, 3.99 hotline, come
crawl inside the mouth of me, the great white whale

my baline? my silkscreen? my ocean teeth?
the monsters a place can grow.

here is the truth of the truth;

i have no space for my elbows, 
i have no space for aching rib cage,
i do not belong here anymore.


Tuesday, January 3, 2017


in 1996, Rob Hall led an expedition to the top of Mount Everest
in which 8 people, including himself, perished.
in 2015, an earthquake in Nepal triggered an avalanche on Mount Everest in which
22 people perished.

i whisper the mystery of life into a bootstep
when and where 
the world will perish, where and when i will
perish. the plans, the hieroglyphs written into 
the skin of the temple. i whisper a name into a bootstep, say
sorry for all the words no one ever told him and
30 snowburied heads nod in approval.

it's funny because
his name was Parrish. 
do you get it? see the pun? see the gasoline?
see the mountain? the great big 
obligation of it all, as the    
weather insists, growls, makes
the wheezing unhappy sounds of wind.
30 snowburied heads nod in approval.     

science says,
in 1996, they only retrieved 3 bodies
science says,
the rest are still up there
science says, 
in 2015, they never found any bodies.
god says,
why assume they are still up there?
why assume he is still up there?
and molds them into snowflakes
science says,
it is not elegant to die
and god says,
it is not elegant to die
yet the backpackers 
keep doing it.
yet my patients 
keep doing it.