my interest was
social experimentation.
it’s why I went to college.
I  wanted to be educated on the ways
to manipulate small crowds
and because of my naivete,
I did not realize at first
that my interest in slightly
sociopathic
behavior was a reflection
and that I find,
truthfully,  serial killers
to be undeniably weak
in their compulsion.

they are artless megalomaniacs.
you could just as easily garden
with the same amount of torrid wonder.
learn to grow nightshade and then
plant it all over town
in places where people smell
flowers and pick weeds for each
other.
but these are men and
they have to be known.
I’ve always had to cross my
legs.
Mrs. Shepherd said you
cannot bet on things that talk,
Sarah,
when I interjected to
share my observation that
the same formulas can be applied to people
when presenting with the same patterns over time.
they would be seen as a fixed event
because they have not wavered in
reliability yet.

another time I stated calmly to
my ethics class that the best way to enforce
a law to ensure it gets a message across
is to just begin enforcing it.
if you believe in the death penalty
the best way to slice it
is to make a black and white clause;
no matter what the circumstances,
calculated homicide will put you
in the electric chair and then they
wouldn’t quibble so much with
semantics.

the first girl to shoot her hand up
was the most riled by my
callous eyebrow lift and when
she presented to me a law and order episode
where the murderer was a child,
I said without pausing
well then kill the child.

“events #1”

then I see your friend three times.

this is where formulas come in
handy and I am grateful:
formula for probability of
A and B.
I am thankful for my AP statistics course in
the 12th grade.
to begin to find the probability
of two events (events being actions or interactions,
not literally events but )
co-occuring you begin to
first choose the right formula,
then map it.
I loved this class. I aced this
class having been removed from all other
advanced math classes. there was nothing
confusing about finding probable
cause.  my learning disability
denotes I can’t twist shapes into
other shapes or tell you which way is
north but i can find cause.


when she brought out the dice
to teach us statistics, it kind
of coalesced: luck is when
things occur against all
odds.

“chiron”

“and, yes, you can feel happy

with one piece of your heart.”–Adrienne Rich

“there ain’t no answer. there’ ain’t going to be any answer. there never has been an answer. that’s the answer.

–gertrude stein

What is more concerning, he was thinking, was the space between us and our religion which governs us.. He was setting the votives carefully along the stairs and praying quietly. A sense of mania surrounding him but it was muted, almost invisible. Like an electric fence. Daydreaming again.
Tonight he was being decisive: which candles to set, where to place them, who to invite. This filled him with a sense of purpose. It was winter, six pm and the sky was black. Already six inches on the ground, the weather predicted a foot more by midnight. No one is coming. The burgundy filled him by four and he was into the beer quickly after that. I have given up already. Depression is an insidious murderer.
“We just don’t feel safe driving,” his phone blinked.
Her face danced on the pane in front of him but he didn’t reach for that. He stood stoic; numbed by the alcohol, frozen by the climate, taken by the idea of it all. No one else was home on his block when he heard the knock.


nice figure and

sharp glances.
obsessed with her wrinkles when
passing windows.
thirty three years old and can’t seem to
thwart her own self persecution.
introduces herself by the name
alpha. 

told me to sit down on the bed.
told me to lay face down on the bed.
told me to put my hands behind my
back; consent.
said she liked ass play
and pegging and

doing things in pieces. 

“how guys save me in their phone #11”

I believe in altar.
I believe in altar.
I believe in altar.

I believe in altar.
I believe in altar.
I believe in altar.
I believe in altar.

I believe in altar.
I believe in altar.
I believe in altar.

I believe in altar.

I believe in altar.

I believe in altar.

“how guys save me in their phone #13”

it helps me to fall
into haze in these
moments of adaptation
or just  length,
time that has
to pass and my
adjustment to fluctuations
in my general
circumstance or
mood is dependent
on the haze.
i like fighting, I smile.
I have a few blocks to go
and every man is facing me
forming a crooked
cock so I just step
into the haze.

I remember this
one day where I met you
to get a Slurpee to
cool off for a while.
your face was most open
outside
drenched,
you tried to hug
me but I am
closed,
drenched in day old
bourbon sweat,
show up unshowered and
in a deep swallow;

a persisting contrition
coated in plum wine,
whatever else I just said,
Bourbon,
I wave my hands over the glass.
that was last night.
that was last night and it
was pretty bad.
but we sit side by side
like it’s something
non-contagious about me.
well except when you smile,
he said.
but I blush and I couldn’t
stand that so I

focus on my knees
remembering
what it felt like
under sheets
and I fell open.
then there’s my brother.
then there’s the new
hard edged smile
on the top of a frosted mug:
ubiquitous half smirk.

“I used to be in love,”
I say out loud
and I’m about one
block from the El
in front of another group
of men with their crooked
cocks and leering.
I close my mouth,
probably drooling,
adjust my strap,
walk forward.
I wake up like that
often and here
sometime,
in the middle of Kensington.


“August pt 2.”

send him a polaroid
of one tear rolling down
your cheek and don’t tell him
you got suntan lotion
in your eyes.
and don’t drown in the bath.
prove your
f ee l i ng
and that you have
f ee l i n g sss.
when I was a child,

colors came out of walls
to talk to me and said:
to survive
place yourself in a box.
there was a room of girls
and we would tell stories.
I live in a box.
it’s about

10 x 10.
and when I walk,
it moves with me.
and one of them says in
a British accent, get on
with it then.
10 x 10
and I am screaming inside.
and everyone wants to

see me cry
and my mouth is
set sternly but
more importantly,
I have had a recurring vision
that I will kill myself
right before I turn 35.
over and over I watched myself
leap off the bridge.
I just have to not kill
myself and I get to walk right
out the ancestral curse
and you’d think
well certainly
easier
than crossing
a tightrope
or tricking a man
into switching places

but the thing is
get on with it then
this box. 

“the box”

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