Monday, December 30, 2019





--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      

Friday, December 27, 2019



—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


Wednesday, December 25, 2019





—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