Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
I am still waiting for the lion
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
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.
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
my father holds his favorite drink
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
the man is stayed bent over the canvas of my sofa. the man is me the man is him self and I bring down the whip…
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…