Category: Uncategorized

one day I had a dream
you bit the head off of a blue jay
and spit it back into her nest.
when I asked why, you said:

To prove you will never leave me.

seventeenth set is most definitely
about you.
I hope you find my gaucherie
amusing.

I find it excruciating
to even stand
near a thing I admire.

I like starting things,
then putting them out.

“Fire”

it’s not sympathy I’m asking
for but an understanding
you can’t possibly imagine
unless you live it.
we are born with it:
the constant want,

desire to be both content
and normal, but also elevated
in euphoria even while
grocery shopping.
feeling a tingle as you
palm the tomato,

yes, yes
tonight will be excellent.

1.

palm the packet in your pocket
but you can always make it better.

2.

I grow bored.
begin to abuse myself
for the spider’s enjoyment.

pose for the hanging thread
in the corner; contort
and let my mouth hang
agape.
appear lost,
and still young
admiring the predator
in my carefully painted
nascent nubility.

and I tell no one
anything.

walk around all day
tremoring in
quiet immolation
and touching every
little thing.

“desideratum” 

Press play on the tape:
I want to hear the exact knell.
The reverb that explained my
swollen throat. My voice dusky,
clenched.
that’s the amphetamine.

Im a big bursting black butterfly. Big wings like a bird.
If not for the coffin, I wouldnt know
I was the butterfly.
Black, silver and white and lithe,
but now I’m a slinking cat.

Sly and dark
but shimmering so if you’re really perceptive
you can see her.
And she’s perfect.
I love this part of me more than ever: this dark part.
I want to love this part

What part is this? I hear his voice come in.

The arbiter.
I can hear the jaw snap
open, a click and then a shuffle
in velvet, my knuckles
gripping the inside blanket.
I remember dropping the straw
and pausing. this is where the chorus
began. alligator sidled up to me
with a mucky, mirthful whisper.

some of them
really had it
coming,
we say together.

“The Black Panther”

set the bowl of pepper
& tourmaline.
you don’t
have another chance.

being obsessed with inequity
creates lines on
your face.
your teeth clenched
with scowl and stress,
mired panic, just something
so familiar about lack
and urgency.
empty stomach. subway,
one headphone working
so the sound is all the way up
to drown out the right’s tinnitus
and you’re eyeing her up and down,
pining for her jacket.
it provides a catalyst to
all movement.

 people are scared
to admit a big motivator
to success is
their unremitting desire
for vengeance.
and money helps.
takes away the change
of facial shape.
fills halls, fills
spaces with things.
little decorative things.
fills lips and
money assuages.

and money goes but
comes eventually.
or at least that’s
what you tell the
little tree you water
on the window every day.
what you tell
yourself on mornings
the aches snake your legs
so you can’t make it
to the tea shop.
what you tell
the little girl shoved
deep inside the well:

hands out,
slack jawed
and frozen.
and waiting.

“The Money Tree”

I remove the rest of my top
and close my eyes deliberately
to show you the length
of each thorn.
wear my eyes like a hooked rose.
tongue pressed against your chin,
my lips trace your jaw   
      I am softer.
having been tempered
and forced close:
you know,
darling,
let my teeth hit your lip

I have never
become divine without first
becoming storm.

 been learning
performative emotion
to keep the ones I’m fettered
to warm, and to feel their
slippery manacles tease
the tops of my feet
like feathers as they drag
me back.
paint my lashes black.

and they’re wet
and
shaped like little
bolts.

1.

I used to leave class
in high school,
go to the bathroom stall
and masturbate whenever
I let dirty thoughts
build too long.
usually it wasn’t
the subject of the class
but the way a boy
brushed my sleeve
on the way to pick up
the beakers.
or the way my own forearm
grazed my nipple.

I used to ask men
to reach under blankets
at house parties
and touch me.
my shorts not so
tight they couldn’t
be pushed to one side.
I used to pay their
way in when there
was a cover,
crawl up their stomachs,
my mouth smelling
of Bud Light and
cigarettes and smiling
bright asking them
if they were still seeing
Mariel and if they wanted
to sit on the recliner.

I always had a spare
five dollars on hand,
at least three cigarettes
and a way to materialize
fire, a way to morph
into lap cat
for whomever I
craved.  my name
was a whispered name:
a baleful purr
of syllable in halls
swirling some girl’s man.

“the rooms”