closed eyes to the watchers in the shadows angels formed in angles beneath the glittering opal
i awoke to the sound of a neighbor crying someone’s suffering is combing my hair
Sometimes when I enter a room, I pretend Zamunda from Coming to America is a real place.
If I could be seen as a force instead of an object instead of a hobby, if I could just do without having to be seen, or if it didn’t matter to me at all, I could be invincible.
black out the windows but the storm is in the house lightning in the bathtub rain over the carpet
Is it because always running is a cliché? And clichés are a rerun of something different? And since you were a boy, did they feed you questionable
i went to see the wizard & asked him for a cock he must have seen by the scuffs on my knees that i really needed one because he said ok
my small fingers curl around a cow’s teat. i point / it in the direction of the pail below. i don’t want to hurt
an animal on stilts reaches the virgin’s tears / and tenderly wipes them. / the virgin cries tres monjitas milk, without coffee.
Someplace else enrages the turtle why a turtle a turtle never did anything to me okay then an old white man with a sign.
Geoffrey, sometimes I think I wear my sadness like caul fat. / Like how a fetal pig never asks to be dressed
Despite everything, my parents raised me. / They even loved me. These things / should always be surprising.
When E is gone / and left / who will I be?
I watched a woman become gore under microscopes, / glowing skin a subterfuge of dust and memory.
all of the lights in the store have gone burnt / dim gaping shelves bent back like bones / breathing fruit rot and dust and no one
What is the problem what is it I ask myself day after day it does not change / I walk through the rooms of my house I open the windows though it is cold
The priest feels a softness washing the back of his neck. Maybe it is rain, he thinks, or sweat.
that curved through the lungs and pierced everything I feared losing –
Anxious Diva tells me I’ve lost what’s fun about me. She says I’m flatter than death. Diva, help me cut these onions, help me feel arrhythmia, tell me how alive I want to be.
We cling to each other like / dust motes to light, and / fall the same way - slow and / landing in erratic patterns.
i couldn't remember what flowers The Hatchet liked so i brought some twigs and branches from the backyard
the overweight cannibals feed every fortnight the children frolic on our scalps this knocking is not a verb
I cannot take what isn’t a gift. Socket, Stiff dance, misdeed, a half intelligible embrace.
pre-existing conditions and the deep deep cuts that still draw blood and still take cultures
history & all its seasonings. Introduce her to your parents, your gods, your sharpened knives. Fry.
while everyone else takes out the ladder for fun. The last time I was fun
sweeping the floors after dusk isn’t easy, the frangipani petals still fragrant, still usable, when
frogs of lead who bust up your skinny lip by agreement, the paradisiac fields excised, the empty spaces removed from our carapace. a better future for the region. international
I receive reams of dry & toneless correspondence that all boil down to never mind
knows this road where it leads us home cocooned we watch our wings we grow we sleep rise and shine
My petals throbbed & stung & shivered with each recitation. & outside, on the play ground
i wanted a way out of the other into the old one, i wanted to fashion handcuffs
Michael—Mr. Stipe? Momentary God?—did your parents ever argue? do you even have parents?
it’s a voicemail when I’m standing in line at the pharmacy I’m working
crow flies through fog never knowing where to land / Crows need other crows / like a smooth monster skull cracking a jawline /
but then i realized that my body isn’t permanent y’know like bodies how bodies are
Skyline fucking up the alpenglow, W/o speed, so few odes
the ball at the top of my spine keeps spinning I cannot relax or see
we only know the night by sound. i can’t speak for the aspects that have been diagnosed as un normal
you say this offering is not death but a transformation from one kind of existence into another
& I too wanted a ghost. To be entered with no fanfare.
Was the couch plaid? Or what? I am trying to collect evidence.
We all slept in the same bed— bodies curved like mandibles. I was plume and warm feathered by your ginseng breathing,
Invite him to your mental cardboard, the dream of miniature golf and pizza at the park.
i am sad and everybody knows it i have the urge to take my shoes off and let my toes wiggle in the grass
desires to toss them to the ground desires to read the shards’ constellation of fates desires to know if his is lost somewhere in her
My stated goal is to make closed forms, which are very difficult and very beautiful.
Who will be with you as you become? I am not asking for me, but for the girl character who waits behind my eyelids
The deer neck’d bone hung between your breasts
a traumatic photosynthesis i have built a city entirely made of baby teeth, roots holding still the frosted fort.
Scattered along the wet sand are tiny, bioluminescent plankton, a different, brighter glow than the ubiquitous jellyfish.
of gold dust, the right dust, the only dust claimed or must they be re-worked into concrete dimmed
not coming, flattened, swallowed whole & hung like an old curtain,
The wet of the day I announce to nonspecific Bodies fill a space to watch Words make up a language I’m not sure I completely
1. Eat so many almonds, eat them until you are full to the brim with roasted almond skin pieces and tiny chewed up almond pieces, and then look in the mirror and see if your eye resembles the nut.
without the risk of losing myself, and there was blood along the edges of my blouse
As an evening like this when the final hour of light you’ve seen more often painted—indirect glaze softening stone, spires—is also porno pink
People keep talking about Jupiter from the bottom. Power is forgetting
i’m a parrot with a toothbrush it’s a wise decision and makes a lot of sense
I don’t know maybe I thought I was turning into him. into a dream of youth. I don’t remember having one. I’m going to ask god to give me back my childhood. I don’t remember having one.
Lately, flossing in the sink or tweezing on the toilet
in my dreams i sleep under branches with pale moonlight
I am a fan of your soul. I would pay to see your soul table shower.
i wrench the bone from my mouth for three minutes before it flutter into a raven
i put u in back of my shoulders / where u can see me only / where i can only imagine the shape
I dump my kool-aid on the lichen the galaxy looks like a flushed toilet I feel closest to people I love when I imagine them dying head juices soaking
THE 52-HERTZ WHALE whistles to no one in particular. This means there is no difference between him crying or him asking for help.
Berlinde De Bruyckere I am thinking of your mind sculpting the carcass as raw matter, slumped heap from which meaning must be freed— of your hands inside the wreckage
COMPLEX DESIRE like the white couch in a room full of mirrors COMPLEX DESIRE like saying i love u in a red pleather jumpsuit COMPLEX DESIRE like fucking the
I Saved Latin, What Did You Ever Do? I called to say we have two lives and only one of them is real - Camille Rankine Ever talk to
I AM A WOMAN GIVING BIRTH TO MYSELF excerpted from a long poem in progress I am messy, painful, redundant. Just so you know from the start. I
INFINITY LOOP I shine like a dying planet and admit the problem. People say nothing can exist without a problem but I am here to challenge assumptions until I
WATER PARK Blurred on top of water is the image of a father in a pool where there’s also a large snake or in a different pool without a
Winner of the 2017 CA Poetry Prize judged by Eileen Myles The New White House, Finding Myself Among the Ruins After Barry Ebner’s Monotype 03012416, 1033316, and 0833316
insomnia due to infidelity with no lost sexual interest
While You Sleep, Idaho Couer D’Alene, come in alone a motel we slept in with pale yellow walls because of a wildfire on i90. you, wild, and impossible to
The not-church is my bedroom & my soft-stained sink. The not-church is everything you, boy, think you know. I’ve seen your books. I’ve seen your pen.
We never fucked after we stopped being in love.
who points to the space underneath his knees and says I usually like to cry in here
Missing someone real good feels like beckoning a dog to come on over for a pet
Crooked tongue, chipped teeth but so Pisces rising, Sagittarius sun: What a nice enough girl with ugly parts.
I lied in my last confession, I have dishonoured my mother and father, um – I have um – hurt people that I care about.
I can’t knock fucking as a concept when he wheedles, can a true catholic
The morning you left me You left me a hundred years before On a dock
I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the ways I might hurt you.
HOW TO READ RED I want weaker bones. To keep from confessing to the toilet bowl. Unfortunately, as a child initiated through violence. Unfortunately, as a child initiated. Unfortunately
The first thing we admit to ourselves as human beings is that we have no idea how the world is going to end.
bite the apple and drink the sweet water see your body as it is taken from you
where my grandmother Is buried. This machine is making sure
Shove notes in your head till they bust out where your eyes supposed to shine.
DAY ONE: I followed an ant back to his nest in the Chihuahuan Desert, a little juniper seed in his mouth.
My sail’s facing the smelly blue sky, something so alluring, between trash, college students and a giant mass of air pollution.
You tell me all the good leaked out of you a long time ago. So I shouldn’t expect much.
We were ambitious, tore golden tickets, couldn’t stand Dad nesting in bed, how our time disappeared in the night.
The radiator rattles like a host of sparrows on a dead limb. I have forgotten, again, the bread.
while a group of tourists take photographs of him, soldering them to words. their intentions scorch
A manicure is an act of self-care. Cut the cuticles, buff the nails.
Were fused then jumped by a frequency Multiplied along a wire That extends from the wrist of a fiery deity
You are just trying to be honest. You ask for directions through the slow orange light. A real touch dilates over you, and the playlist hides in the gauzy stretch you haven’t found.
Beds are strange places: havens, homes to dead skin, I spend so much time with mine but don’t know it at all.