Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
The collective failure of ethical standards
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
I am still waiting for the lion
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
I have observed, the theorist I am
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
four-thirty a.m.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.