POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
My Multiverses

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

The State School 1984 His Given Name Was Wilbur  We Called Him Magpie

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

An Interview with Dylan Krieger

Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.

appetites

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

Several someones

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

Mom, in Her Dementia, Steals Oranges

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

things they won’t tell you but should:

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

love poem with dead leaves & color

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

3:17 AM as Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

heavy rain
The Plot

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

Vase

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

woman at bar
After She Told Me You Pushed Her Down the Stairs

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

Willpower

Live the rest of your life
from one worst case to another.

REVENGE SCENE

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.

Going Broke

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

The love of my life moved from portland to new england

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Condolences

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies