I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

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.

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

I have observed, the theorist
I am

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

I am still waiting for the lion

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

The sin is existing.

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.