if you asked me where I was,
stopped me on a street corner,
I would blink my big owleyes as if I just woke up,
not be able to answer fast enough,
you’d be surprised to learn,
I’m local.

you can live anywhere
as long as its not in your body.
even Philadelphia, even
Kensington, the first neighborhood
I arrived to.

I tattooed her name
on my arm to never
forget where I came from;
the city that  unsheathed
me to beat me with it’s
black ice and corners.
she turns to me again and
says, I implore you,
for me,

do you like
warnings or do
you like to drown?
and feeling myself a
smirking fox,
traipse the town in
pink chiffon, I spit on the
floor and I say:
I don’t know

why don’t you just
fucking surprise


I begin to grow,
unfurl, hum


it’s all the same poem;

me losing something

and later,  not

remembering anything

as I fall into the dementia

and I think,

some things are hereditary

and some things are a wash

before they arrive.

I wish I would have saved

my dead dog’s hair brush,

my dead cat’s mouse,

some pictures of my friends,

my childhood house

before it crumbled from

the moisture, the squirrels,

the rats and us;

wish I saved anything to

do with us,

I think as I erase 

our conversation.

when i’m old I want to be 

confused about what shook me


you end up counting pennies

at the end,

penurious again

wrapped in pewter

mansion.   you’re lost

in a giant house

with a giant yard

by a giant lake you

swear contains an alligator,

a few dogs and cats,

 a room lined with books,

a nurse to remind you not

to eat your sweater

and dreams of sons,

or daughters if they’ll have

me, and us. trying to 

remember us. 

“Grief part 6”

You said things

take sacrifice and I


We were giant and we

both would shrink

to fit inside a

cavity that would carry us

back to each


You always proposed

the meeting place

and I always proposed

the time.

We both loved

compromise and we both

understood sacrifice.

I promised you sometime

in eternity and you

promised me somewhere

on Earth.

“The gauntlet”

“I have opened it.”
–Alfred Tennyson’s last recorded words

marrow cage
pinned under his sex and a
a grab for steady wages,
three thousand pages of 

unique rejections
and my wrists are bound
together by self denigration.
a noticeable attachment to water,
currents or anything that’s
a noticeable longing for windows.
my veneration for absence.

a noticeable longing for door knobs,
my admiration for sadists
and what they take,
an unwavering self-beratement
tightening the joints of bone bars,
my masochistic streaks
and the interminable door
slamming shut
and less concerning to everyone

a noticeable absence of love.

“door #1” or “the daydreams”

“there is heaven inside of you.

other things too.”

–responses from God during meditation, 07/17/17, 8:43 pm

“Name your torture,”
one of them said
I wanted an orchard
but I swallowed the vodka
he handed me
willingly.I don’t believe in simplicity
or explaining the meaning behind things
it’s why I write poetry
I say with a hint of clarity.

you are buried deep underground
like winter’s favorite
spring’s daughter
in her tomb of
bone and gold.
you are the sudden
eruption of fruit on vine,
and fences lined with
a crust of
you wraith like honeysuckle
and rage in thorns.

you are both
the rising,
and the metamorphosis:
the  lasting arrival.
you are the dark queen
in her final hours
returned to Earth
to wage a

you are Persephone’s
final futile hours
screaming at the flowers,
soaking everything in

“the crusade”

but in the sun

I’m thirsty,
let me be a rose about it:
dew sprung,
rained on in
blood red gown,
something always
noticed; something
often picked
even lined with


You send me butterflies

at night

to assuage me,

but it doesn’t take the sting

of ambivalence away.

I return the offer:

I dress in wings,

suck the nectar from 

dusk’s flowers:

a long nightmare,

a black balloon,

one long dry choke.

You spend the year immured

in poetry and pieces

of half finished dreams,

obsessing over everything

you see.

I become immune.

I spend the year

immersed in beds of

black obsidian and

forgetting what it

ever meant to


             who’s the wolf 

           and who’s the deer?

Run a bath of rose quartz and

whisper those three words

you’ve been dying

to hear:

this unfolds,


“datura moon”

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