in good dreams I’m no longer vulpes vulpes at the table.
& it can happen in the house / & it can happen in the pub / & it can be in the dinner conversation meant for poetry but means
gators are trained to follow the whirring / fan so customers can snap / photo heat and haze / —as it dances the surface / like so many motes
My cunts dropped in the ground. What mirror, right, in the ground. I want to see a mad choreography in the cell, I sweat out buildings.
The circus animals, dizzy / from the fumes of a million bucks’ / worth of fireworks, reel.
Hello neighbour. The cat's face comes quick / to the crack. Gord is a quiet prisoner. / I can't choke this wane and seep. / I sink all my electronics in bathwater.
Maybe if I could hold the sardine’s spine / gently, without breaking it, / it would become a pearl necklace clasped / to my throat as I speak the answer.
you buy me 3 Subway cookies / and while sucking the butter out of them / I wonder how I can trust a culture / that manufactures idols?
We rose to it, held ourselves tight. Remember / the talk of the tips of our blades? Didn’t you feel / softened in the parking lot?
When this island was first formed / the sand was darker / you explain this & other things / but I remember
Another still in / another album, or an / anywhere of dirt / your throatless a capella, / an electric song unplugged.
Because it only takes one—there were three—they dragged her—by the hair—because the meadow—unaware and typical—durum-gold—because a horse
Home como ancla, no como cadenas, rather you as a worm, hooked / in a little fishing village by the sea / away from the desert calling / the iguanas Mother, though they could give you no suck.
I’m slumped down into my deck chair. / I feel fuzzy; allergy medicine high. My / mother and I are having dinner: two / wine glasses clink together.
No skeleton. Just a cylinder of muscle: / the house that holds the organs / of each sex.
I steal fresh palms from my neighbors / And swirl these together in a saucepan / To keep pests from coming in
It is all we have to account for the missing mass in the orbital velocity / of stars that Joseph-called-John connects on his bedroom wall.
Flakes drop from your pajamas— / The sky is furry. / Damp air fiddles like rumors / until thick with fidelity.
Sunlight flickers between their tiny legs, / and now I envy them from a distance, too.
It's the best I can do—to catch myself if I fall, to not break my teeth.
To anyone who’s ever walked around it, to anyone there right now, lay down your stones, the pyramid does not point north.
Here I have wept. Mold on the walls, roar of the hard, divine sentence on the weak and the lost.
About craving, about arthritic haunches on big dogs the distance between childhood and that second thigh
It was supposed to be harmless, so you act / like it’s harmless. The smell of vanilla and thyme / in the crook of your neck where skin meets hair.
There is a roof one man’s body makes over another. Pine needles on sharp grains. This is what I remember.
My carriage spills waste. Brown lachrymose blood along crotchlines. My carriage spills waste. Metabolized yellow.
Feminists fuck like a real man You’re always unfastening buttons you don’t need to.
(A skilled calligrapher will tell you that they should “give the impression of a sail filled by the wind.” But a poor first stroke, and the others will “look like lost cotton wads tossed by the wind.”)
Never past the pink concrete altar where roasted the Christmas pig Never under a hush, slipping off my shoes, letting you check the door first
I pick plums from a tree in your backyard for breakfast and brush the fur off with my nightgown.
I misread “so many people killing it this month” as “so many people killing this month.”
He is ryegrass. The voices of his heart like tensed wings; ripples in the serum of a stoppered vial. Death is the only word in any language sleeping won't spoil.
Dawn outside his chambers disintegrates, retreats, Anxious, breath unwholesome, like the stricken man.
I hadn’t been able to read it in the darkness of the hall. The train was late, all the blueness was becoming gold.
Years previous, age single digit, I danced through the yellow pages while my parents were in the shower, grasping our landline. The cord was a color that spoke of no color. I wasn’t privy of pay phones, cells were rich and thick, and *67 may or may not have been in effect. I inquired whether fridges were running, forecasting the seemingly benign.
Where the way this combo tongue and squeeze the air tells me it’s John C’s b’day-O yes; he had a nice place on Long Island
Past the stone angel heads and over the calm brutes, the freeway thins and wears white like a patient tonight.
indulgence analogous to / being open by morning / fall forward / fall conjuring / tell the farmer we / cannot taste his / milk but wish to
my daughter / led you / shabby prince / over the bridge / so slowly and solemnly
They can’t find a working lighter, so they take all the shreds of tobacco out of their cigarettes.
Do I want to look good? / Or do I want to look rich, and if not rich, taken care of? / Of course, erotics troubles this
in good dreams I’m no longer vulpes vulpes at the table.
& it can happen in the house / & it can happen in the pub / & it can be in the dinner conversation meant for poetry but means
gators are trained to follow the whirring / fan so customers can snap / photo heat and haze / —as it dances the surface / like so many motes
My cunts dropped in the ground. What mirror, right, in the ground. I want to see a mad choreography in the cell, I sweat out buildings.
The circus animals, dizzy / from the fumes of a million bucks’ / worth of fireworks, reel.
Hello neighbour. The cat's face comes quick / to the crack. Gord is a quiet prisoner. / I can't choke this wane and seep. / I sink all my electronics in bathwater.
Maybe if I could hold the sardine’s spine / gently, without breaking it, / it would become a pearl necklace clasped / to my throat as I speak the answer.
you buy me 3 Subway cookies / and while sucking the butter out of them / I wonder how I can trust a culture / that manufactures idols?
We rose to it, held ourselves tight. Remember / the talk of the tips of our blades? Didn’t you feel / softened in the parking lot?
When this island was first formed / the sand was darker / you explain this & other things / but I remember
Another still in / another album, or an / anywhere of dirt / your throatless a capella, / an electric song unplugged.
Because it only takes one—there were three—they dragged her—by the hair—because the meadow—unaware and typical—durum-gold—because a horse
Home como ancla, no como cadenas, rather you as a worm, hooked / in a little fishing village by the sea / away from the desert calling / the iguanas Mother, though they could give you no suck.
I’m slumped down into my deck chair. / I feel fuzzy; allergy medicine high. My / mother and I are having dinner: two / wine glasses clink together.
No skeleton. Just a cylinder of muscle: / the house that holds the organs / of each sex.
I steal fresh palms from my neighbors / And swirl these together in a saucepan / To keep pests from coming in
It is all we have to account for the missing mass in the orbital velocity / of stars that Joseph-called-John connects on his bedroom wall.
Flakes drop from your pajamas— / The sky is furry. / Damp air fiddles like rumors / until thick with fidelity.
Sunlight flickers between their tiny legs, / and now I envy them from a distance, too.
It's the best I can do—to catch myself if I fall, to not break my teeth.
To anyone who’s ever walked around it, to anyone there right now, lay down your stones, the pyramid does not point north.
Here I have wept. Mold on the walls, roar of the hard, divine sentence on the weak and the lost.
About craving, about arthritic haunches on big dogs the distance between childhood and that second thigh
It was supposed to be harmless, so you act / like it’s harmless. The smell of vanilla and thyme / in the crook of your neck where skin meets hair.
There is a roof one man’s body makes over another. Pine needles on sharp grains. This is what I remember.
My carriage spills waste. Brown lachrymose blood along crotchlines. My carriage spills waste. Metabolized yellow.
Feminists fuck like a real man You’re always unfastening buttons you don’t need to.
(A skilled calligrapher will tell you that they should “give the impression of a sail filled by the wind.” But a poor first stroke, and the others will “look like lost cotton wads tossed by the wind.”)
Never past the pink concrete altar where roasted the Christmas pig Never under a hush, slipping off my shoes, letting you check the door first
I pick plums from a tree in your backyard for breakfast and brush the fur off with my nightgown.
I misread “so many people killing it this month” as “so many people killing this month.”