He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
four-thirty a.m.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
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…
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
I have an axe with hearts gashed
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
I am still waiting for the lion
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.