and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
I am still waiting for the lion
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
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…
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
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.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.