0d54a4f2 09ca 458c 87ad eb2f4c6f8814


United States

“all the poets in the alley coughing up blood / and their visions and their dreams are coming up red / they can either wake up or go deeper / but it's so dangerous to wake a deep sleeper"
-small bill$

Message from Writer

i like latin and mangoes

Published Work

p u l l i n g m e a p a r t

yesterday my fingers prized apart
glassy sheep flesh, cerebrum cerebellum
brain stem fresh on shaking fingers
and we peeled away layer layer layer
inspecting fearing and maybe the madness
drove it too far—we quenched we quested
that lovely longing, forgotten crime,
and how i loved that scalpel.  i skewered
frontal lobe drove past memory smell
parental instinct landed with coordination
and pulled away dark veins, a tangled
vine smothered in milk muscle memory
love lust lore, my science my education
my pen my paper and writing but the
hand shakes with care with envy punctures
midnight into templates and all for science
all for wanting science.  five minutes to
lunch i am hungry i am sick hands cramp
to meat-searching talons and i wish i could
forget but it’s on my fingers on my palms
the noodles crush under teeth but maybe there are
neurons crunching under the spaghetti
and it throbs it squeezes under voluntary
jaws and i ...


but i would’t know, the black shields have
long clasped my drums past detection, that
little friend singing perverted messes into my
waxed-up canals.  and i’ve picked my fingers
to red sticks, crystal structures of blood and
soap, and outside i think the landfills are filled
and landed with pried off nails and shells of
fingers hanging like half moons on the mucky
mindless sky.  but i wouldn’t know; the sky’s
made of squares in these geometrical times
and so are the people—circle eyes and noses
of deep isosceles, but their stomachs still
sink and dry like oceans, curved continents
dying under lips of azure blue.  once upon
a time we were fat, and the starving always
starved, until we sought them out, rattled their
scrappy heads for beauty secrets.  so out were
lugged the lightning-green bills and the coins that
thunder minted, back to the square-ish storm
outside.  and zeus wasn’t so kind this time, and
no bread or fish need be...


you're beautiful (darling) i remember
when i wrote you my vows i was inhaling
the blond tusks of your flaxen hair your
pretty pewter eyes in my hard solid
sockets and you wanted to kiss me and i
said okay.  you're precious (angel) i was
stuck in the molds of your symmetrical
skin since i saw you at first chiseled
cheeks in my shattered eyes staring like
you loved me and it was alright.  you're
fire (baby) and i'll stay warm rather
than freeze in the real world because
it hurts so much where everything is.  you're
sugar (dearest) and i'd eat it again
and again as long as it would take to
make you real
but for now romance is for the sense-
less and i'm stuck with poisoned
neurons and never knowing never
thinking never wondering because
the cosmos is in my head and you're
a lifeless assessment of the world that
isn't there.


    “I don’t know…”
    Eyes bored into a drooping scalp; face met foor, face met face met floor.  Hands shook in navy pockets.  Gray eyes stared. Lips were licked.
    Eyes raised (what bravery!), looked over shoulders––great angular masses, clefts like cliffs truculently cutting a still sky.
    Tacitly the two stared at the tiled flooring.
    “Sorry, anyway––”
    All was left, and as acquaintance walked away lungs burned and heaved, lungs punctured and puked.  Fingers massaged face, massaged bones and eyes red as sunset.
    Don’t talk to me don’t talk to me.

power outage // the day life was lost

i think you veins were made of electric currents, because
today the outage stifled my house, and i ate breakfast under
flashlights before hearing the news.  it meant nothing to me, nothing
but the greater circumstance, the jolting throb for someone
i'd never known before.  numb fingers on a steering wheel, the car
an empty cavern, and everyone thinking in unison about the
wonder in tragedy, the cosmos in the tears dripped and drunk
in the shortage of light.  first period, the translations of things––
video videre = see; pons pontis = bridgetears = down everyone's
faces and into the textbooks they just can't see
.  so class was
stopped and hallways were filled, filed with sobbing people clutching
one another like cliffs––the lockers were slammed, and for once
the pain of inanimate objects was felt.  science room darkened like
the outage that morning, and the crying people made a jagged circle
and spoke out loud...

goddess of earth

her face is little and leafy—hands smeared
in nit and grit, this and that, dirt and seeds.  she
is a rascal, minuscule mouse, and a goddess of
the earth, of ruptured cloth, soiled
smiles and wide sunshine.  she walks around things
and hugs at them—wide mother’s waist, buried in purple
skirts made of folds and playgrounds. little goddess builds
temples made of pink, and mother and father kneel
to worship, praying with crazy hands, and she kisses
them with wet lips and runs into the grass and rain.
tickled, dirt plastered to a soggy face, bubbly mouth
parted in whooping gales, she never questions, never
doubts the yellow of sun, yellow of life.

The Piano in His Ears

    The beetle struggled on the bathroom floor.
    Its thin and glossy legs asserted blindly forward, spindly, hopeless.  Maybe it wished for a scrap to cling, or even a boy’s outstretched fingers meaty for grabbing.  But it only lay on its back, black shell glinting prettily on the tiles. Troy expected little else.
    He too was lying with his back on the floor, the same floor, the grimy unwashed stretch prickling with cat litter and pocks of old shampoo.  Toilet paper lay in flowered rolls on the ceramic. An artificial mouse was pasted in the corner, muffled in old and silvery hairs. Its owner had been dead for years, but Troy had never moved it.
    The room was silent but for the whirring of a fan, Troy’s oxygen stirring the condensed and stinking air.  The world he breathed was hot and faintly soggy, swirling like steam on a parched tongue, and the humidity trickled down his forehead in clear beads.  He...

10:28 PM

and the room is clean and airy, cloaked in icy
darkness, but the fierce eyes of the alarm clock paste
pixelated numbers across the barren white
walls, a faint aquamarine creeping, stabbing through
lidded eyes, then a sleepy palm on a mismatched dial, and now
the radio sings, fractured paper voices warbling
over unsteady guitars, soft and sticky in clogged
eardrums.  10:28, and the rectangular grids of the
ending numeral shifting, one side blinking away, 9,
and then the tens wrigggle and sway, hour by
hour, day by day, while the radio rackets in sleeping ears.

a pondering of equivalence

summer = a soggy mirror, a slippery sieve
and joy = golden sand, lush as fruit, rapidly slipping
decreasing, silver and sterile, undergoing air, fading to
tear-shaped particles on a rough and rocky shore.
here = fact:
they tell me every day every week every year every
lifetime.  but meaning spins a vicious cycle, soaring high
into happy oxygen when the sky = cold, keeling into
barren earth as the sun = fat and warm.
“it = beautiful day” sing the birds the trees the belligerent
humans, a beautiful day brimming with the meaning
of life.  they love the sunny straps acquired on
shoulders on arms on legs, the pretty pretty grass and the
blue blue sky.
all for me: i sit down with the sun and
cry hot tears gilded golden by summer as sand pitfalls
through a glassy snowflake sieve.