Month: January 2017

{ those times when words fail }

our weekly halftime shows worry the neighbours you say and I say no one is listening anymore maybe the roaches cheer our battle royale both barbarous and wounding neither entertained on kitchen floor too small to hold our clash even air outside cannot contain the chimneying ear smoke nose not bloody but running from blame the past the tears the trust lack you’ll never cook and I’ll never quit drinking change is overrated they dial 911 and you say I am 911 and we hug avid in isolated...

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posterior/ of moaning

in the morning before I die sweaty ego            less a face ass up             grabbing sheets ghost I’ve become pushing my finger holes for eyes             considering oblivion of always same             hollow hunting             only wanted the dark             augmentation of reality             dissipation & ablation             internet sin            where skin of mine...

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I’m Sorry My Bruxism Keeps Us up at Night

He reaches across the bed, places a hand on my shoulder or back sometimes. Sometimes he yells (what sounds like yelling in sleep) be quiet or stop. And I do sometimes.  I stay awake and slip my tongue between my lower teeth and jagged guard to keep from thrashing if only for a moment. I let him...

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Ode to So-Called Sanctuary Cities

Whether de facto or de jute, our Prez is lookin’ good. You go Girl! for owning buildings on both sides of the border even if all of your angry tweets have no legal meaning, not yet. Seems like something eventually has got to give—tenacious weeds sprouting up in schoolyards all across America where amnesia makes it impossible for bullies sent home to become something other than what they really are. Inmates darting under our Veep’s rusted belt look pretty much the same if not for the electronic billboard planted right in the middle of what was once a cornfield...

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Our Descent

It was three days after another New York bombing and the first time you didn’t kiss me goodbye. Give wishes for a safe flight, and to me it was clear— if it weren’t for the others, you’d will that plane to crash from pregnant clouds. How neat, how tidy, how perfect it would all be. Nobody would know the coldness of the morning, how you refused to even pretend to hear me. How it was your mother I touched last. Who would know how much I drank at the airport bar, that I worried the weight I’d put on...

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