There is no linear time. Everything is happening all at once. You may meet your own death every night and still never see it coming because you do not expect it. It is the one guarantee that we never expect. We expect love more than death. I laughed when I wrote that. You do not earn your birth or love, but you earn your death by taking your first breath on Earth.

writing is the only shot I have
recreating moments,

reinterpreting the past.

nothing ever comes back.
and my memory
begins to play
tricks on me.
and because I know,
I learn to write more

“foretelling” or “dementia”

I need

 the force-fed fever or the fury,

the moaning or the excessive worry,

the albatross I drape

along the shapes that the shades leave on my waist

when I’m alone & in sudden need,

some emergency that forces me back under the sheets

in a pretty heavy dysthymic fit of 

missed opportunity.

we choose grapes & mud slurry

over contact every time.

we choose as if we have to:

impenitent thirst or the gentle mercy,

 the lie or the glory,

we say:

my god, how could you! or I’m sorry.

pause when agitated or doubtful

(or sink your mandible heart on them).

“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”

“Something spreading underground won’t speak to us,

under skin won’t declare itself,

not all life-forms want dialogue with the

machine-gods in their drama hogging down.”

–Adrienne Rich

under my therapist’s guidance,
I sit down and talk to my inner predator,
learn where all the trouble started.

now, now, listen to the guilt, it’s talking.

 I’ve always been drawn to sentences:

spent sunrise picking at covered clots;
veins growing lush with unsheltered heart,
profuse & spilling drops that
take years of self harm but
amount to
(fingers crossed)
one very

the salve is in the drowning.

I stomp into the other room and
shatter the bowl
she let me borrow.
strip my skin of clothes and scent in
a hot steam bath
let the pieces rest.

watch my step 
around the house
for now.

my place,
one carnelian cobweb,
can’t be swept.


at the not now
you spoke back
(like I’m just some summer blossom)

hem slipping up to expose my own,
a garter wrapped around my left thigh:
fresh with conquest,
lasting impact of
your parting mouth that just
hangs there and hurts when I

I’m counting
cicada shells
under the picnic table.
a gesture of presence.
Someone told me to stop replaying old voicemails and
I needed a year to pass.
I scrubbed away the last of your fingernail but I have to
ride the bite marks out.

I stick out my tongue to catch all she had.
bold with my repentance
and ready to wash the phantomsaway.

the gray sky remembered
she had lightning.
suddenly elucidated,
I am the dark thing inside of me.


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