a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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 myself should never have been born

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

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

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.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

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