and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

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…

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

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

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

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

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…

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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.