I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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.

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…

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.

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed