the night was a sunken treasure chest and the moon was always late horizon like an hourglass—twice stirred— tipsy as a ship shaken in salt and the room was sideways with a swinging light, walls like a green dream made of sand, a single, red bar and two magnums full of pencils phonograph percolating like [...]
Tag: poems
Seven Road
View the full text of this poem. I. it’s a white witch kind of Sunday air like a dream catcher, crystal leaves, and all the pixies from the night before are still standing, rusted eyeshadow, breasts of wind and hairs crossed like the silk of a gin fizz on the back your throat i woke [...]
Salt Lick
once upon a— no forget it— **THERE IS NO SUSTENANCE HERE.** this house of bones and hero worship, scraping us all down to the knees, under covers clinging faithless by the knuckles to celebrity skin like cheap porn or moldy wallpaper *best scrubbed thoroughly in the bathroom sink* another shitty politician a can of Pringles [...]
Lady Song
what i want my dear, is a flickering, a little leaping, oh, yes a prodding delicate as a nail, a candle only partially burning, a kiss on the tops of the ears and the drift of a nightgown thin as baby powder, oh, just a little look, my dear, a shiver of the eyelashes, a [...]
Graffiti
what i need is a crayon so i can fill in all the gaps in the colors of the alphabet and all the numbers that code the bars of the graphs that tell us how old we are and how tall we should be and how fast our hearts should be beating and to what [...]
Flo On
the day’s a stale word the kind that’s afraid of an honest mouth (a thing so strangely made) a conversation like a broken arrow, busted wind and a tree of fire, death at the roots of the all the palms, and a half-flung syllable that punches like an empty fist i don’t know about you [...]
Kissing Boys
I used to have wild hair the kind that knit tangles in the keyholes of all the sweaters and knots in the toes of the kissing boys who used to tip toe in after school like little princes to slay that imaginary line between two lips (where we found the kisses we taught not to [...]
