Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
I am still waiting for the lion
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
The sin is existing.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
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.
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.