“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.
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
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt
Her brown eyes,
how a fig
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