Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
The sin is existing.
The collective failure of ethical standards
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
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.
I have observed, the theorist I am
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
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.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome