Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray

The sin is existing.

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

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.

I have observed, the theorist
I am

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

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

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

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

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

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