I have observed, the theorist I am
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…
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
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.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
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.