20 November 2015


the morning passes slowly, like a
kidney stone.
i sit on my bed, drinking tea,
loathe to give up what left-
over warmth clings to this bed,
which isn't a bed so much as
a haphazard pile
of blankets
on the floor.
the sun has, in her in-
scrutable wisdom, chosen not
to come out when she was sup-
posed to--loitering, rather,
demure and thought-
less, wanton, wayward,
lost behind a deep and
haggard cloud.
and i know somewhere in-
side myself: eyelids heavy, muscles
heavy, belly heavy with hot
tea--i know indistinct-
ively that i
was never meant
for mornings.
it is far better for you to call
on me in the after-
if you are looking for
me then, you will find
me lying in bed or
standing in the backyard or
hunched over some-
thing small: something precise and
unusual: something detailed and
curious and

11 November 2015


poured out upon this
thankless ground
the air itself punctured
precisely, in
carefully measured intervals
by shards of silver
when, again,
the world zooms out
tips on its side--feints--faints--falls--
the way it used to when
back when
and then
the sickening silent lurch
and turn into a wild
skid, air cracking like windows
bursting into clingfilm-covered coarse
quartz sand
the very ephemeral air, the one and only air,
solid as a jewel and
twice as sharp.

15 October 2015


down comes the hammer in the center of the town
escape the beat of concrete feet
come tearing up the ground
steel yourself for twenty tons
press into eighty-four
hear your blood escape itself
and fathom sixty more
surrounded by a thousand lights
all piercing bright and clean
close your eyes control your fears
plug into the machine

up comes the signal in the middle of the street
conceal your heart and take apart
each future that you meet
avail yourself of ninety pints
yet drown in thirty-six
feel your own soul devour yourself
belt down the galling mix
filled as you are with guillotine
and wine and tears and bread
close your eyes forget to smile
you cant escape your head

08 June 2015


the sky is a damp and
mealy gray.
the engine of the bus roars,
inescapable and
deafening and
i can barely see out
of the rain-flecked windows.
the city is dark and
slick with almost-ice:
fat white heavy raindrops
congealing in the gutters,
in muddy holes dug by great
groaning yellow-black
anonymous machines,
in droplets on my glasses and
my waterproof.
I know my own mind, my own
soul, and
it is heavy like this
rain. it is cold like this
rain. and
i do not limit myself,
but i am limited

02 June 2015

Mariana II

it's useless, trying:
every hour slips by cold as a fish
slippery as a hagfish
burrowing into the belly
of a whale.
let it be known that i have only
resisted this darkness
insofar as darkness has resisted
except it isn't only darkness.
it is the deep pressure of the sea floor
it is the crush of a thousand atmospheres
it is the silent, unyielding flow of brine
and picked-clean bones settling in silt
and numbers falling forward
across the face
of a clock.

29 May 2015

knock thrice and fall back

measure out the rest of your life
in ounces and pints--
cups, gallons, CCs, liters--
all of your memories bitter-bitter-sweet
beginnings tasting like endings
endings tasting like rum hot
in the back of the throat and
wadded kleenex and
it takes thirty seconds to shed
a lifetime of cold
hot flashes prickling the skin in waves
leaving you colder than before
and contemplating darker shadows.
sleep is a myth
and dreams, rest, peace, comfort,
all of its fabled trappings:
sirens calling unwitting soldiers to come
bleed themselves dry upon the rocks.
do not succumb to the light
that flashes outside of your window.
it signals helicopters.
it does not even know that you exist.

05 May 2015


there is nothing i can say
     that hasnt already been said

there is nothing i can do
     to silence voices in my head

so i lean back on the anger
     of deflection and cliche

hold back hot tears and

(for the sake of rhyming) pray

...to no one in particular,
     no god, goddess, soul, or spirit

even my own reflection seems
     too ill-disposed to hear it

ive been cornered--captured--caged
    insulted--made so small

i suppose it is a wonder i have
     words left in me at all

letting go is hard
     holding on is harder still

warmth seeps thru to my fingertips.

ive naught but time
(and hope)