Month: December 2017

The Realest Thing About Me Is My Exhaustion

I’m tired of my life & my attempts to do anything worthwhile. I’m tired of men & the way they say “I love you” just in case they mean it some day. I’m tired of holding back the things I need to say so long that they begin welling up in the back of my throat, silently choking the breath out of me. I don’t know which of the things I do could make me money anymore. I wander around confused about expectations & disappointing myself just by the way I wake up in the morning. A woman at...

Read More

Distance

The Piazza Navona teamed with life everlasting in that outdoor café when you still tugged at my sleeve like you owned me, the feel of cobblestones under our cheap but stylish “sneakas” perfect machiattos in hand. Who needed more? And the museum across the way full of ancient mysteries and beauty like no shit you could imagine if only we had gone in to find them. I was never a museum person. Years later, we saw it again in The Da Vinci Code, still happy. Heaving the weight of precious cargo. Those times were rapture/rupture. Even now they tickle...

Read More

Goblin

1. His prayer for the girl who lost his baby. Years later his daughter peels oranges on the couch, speaks of opening the east. She smiles. 2. His apology to the girl who took him home from work one night, asked him to be rough. He said gentleness warred inside him. 3. His hands on the wheel of a car, chariot we rattled across youth. He asked how quickly I could smoke a cigarette. I snubbed it out. 4. His heart folds up in a vale of blood. I don’t recall what brought us war. He lifts a hand....

Read More

Suburban idylls of Birmingham

Sleeping all summer beneath your open window, humidity seeps into you From the ravine, a breeze—the creek vibrates, the deck creaks Footfalls: a possum/ a raccoon/ a coyote investigates—sitting on the sill, a cat hisses low—the rock beds, breaking retreat   Carousel hills and valleys—ripe air sips fuel, lapsed hours, the night circles Exorcise first love, circle his house, Bikini Kill on blast, hands courting the wheel         There is no good man for your bed—a good man never held a rebel grrl They’ll leave a few pennies under the pillow for favors you fought to...

Read More

Anhedonia

it’s me with scalloped borders skull packed with ash and seed it’s me but made of smoke coughing flies the size of bullets a silent theater bizarre: open on me as a constellation of old coins dissolving at the bottom of a fountain then to a writhe of hands that regards then betrays itself these days who can say there’s a difference between bloodletting and ‘clinical emergency’ anything i consume folds itself into the dark corners and becomes whispered the mattress moans something about sysiphus and its favorite ways to poison a forest winter follows me to work its...

Read More