Poetry

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.” —Rita Dove

Ode To the Dove Pt. VI

Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.

close up of sun
Mercury in Retrograde

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

Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

painting of apple and grapes
Feast Of

anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple

Electric Eels, Finishing School, Teeth

Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.

Hollywood Hills
the remarkable thing

I am still waiting for the lion

There is an alternative universe

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

On the Night Row-Houses Across the Street Catch Fire

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

Dis Place Ment

People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.

3:17 AM as Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks

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

woman at bar
After She Told Me You Pushed Her Down the Stairs

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

[Zoetrope with Particulates in it and a Newborn]

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

beach
On Undressing a Color / On Undressing a Girl

I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.

melting ice cap
blue is the color of surrender

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

heavy rain
The Plot

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

Several someones

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

Observer of the Patient

Her brown eyes,
how a fig
considers itself.

i do not want to wait until it’s too late

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

REVENGE SCENE

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.