You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
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.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
The collective failure of ethical standards
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.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
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.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
I have an axe with hearts gashed
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
The sin is existing.