--IT’S LIKE PICKING UP TRASH IN DRESSES

                                               i want to

              i want to      die      in a port      with other leaky vessels     and strangled mermen      i want to die     in a barbaric desert     lick a cactus to death      watch the sun corrupt     the bleeding moon     i     want     to      die      sooner than later       at least by friday     five pm or sometime            around nine     before the neighbors get nosey     i want to      die waiting     die combing        my yearning scalp      i want to die     placid as a drugged     or boneless     lamb      in your open arms      

—IF THE WORLD WAS ENDING, YOU’D COME OVER, RIGHT?

The Agony of Being

hopeful. Or maybe we rub

Our calluses. Against the shifting

Weight of despair. Testing

Gravestones for sobriety

And resolve. While the cyclone

Fence sags. Surrounded by weeds so

Thirsty they take hostages. Or

Maybe. Everyone I’ve ever

Loved gathers. To stare at my faulty

Shadow. Ghost skins in their hand.

Or maybe when I try to wave

My arms have been dissolved.

My song leaking sediment. Running

laps over the dead and stillborn.

Saying listen. Look. I’m right here.  

I’m

—ALL OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE STRANGERS

dear christmas

there’s a broken

bell or tree

branch stuck / struck

inside my throat this time

of year / hour

morning / mourning

i’m crushing under

the weight of a

glacier because i

remember you

differently

a sober morning

before the ripe

wreckage and

ruptured carpussels

smoke genies blinding

both my eyes / selves

my mother’s been

boxed for more

than a thousand years

yet she still lives

here

cozy as a hag

wearing a festive wig

one hand barbed

the other swollen

thick as the horror

of your holiday

if there’s something

you need to say

don’t

instead hike up your

grubby sheet and

tell your holy ghosts

no thank you

we’re done

i’m turning on the

light