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?

I am still waiting for the lion

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

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

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

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.