a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
The collective failure of ethical standards
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
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.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack Once a zipper Unzipped
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties