None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.

A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.

She said I would find my perfect love when on the brink of death.

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…

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings

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

The sin is existing.

I eat my Oreos with relish. No—I mean I relish in the Oreos I eat.

Adrienne Christian is a poet, writer, and fine art photographer.

The hamantaschen have followed us from apartment to apartment, all of the kitchens dark, cramped, cluttered.

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

Sound engineers believe Alan Rickman possessed the perfect male voice. Early acting teachers told him he sounded like he was speaking from the back of a drainpipe.

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

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”