poem: i’m thinking of starting things

sports presents: december sunday,winter light, the men first-downfirst-down. i am undecided,grad school or travelteach abroad, live love sex& kisses with strangers,his hand on my neckin the little house, jeju islandrennes then paris, toykotoyko beijjing. sports continues: why don't you crowd the line of scrimmage, says the commentator;the aloe plant next to the christmastree next to… Continue reading poem: i’m thinking of starting things

poem: last night i finished everything

champagne—good morning—celebrating the art of putting words on tonguesand speaking blackberries,raw crescents, the dovesin the trees and the hair;their feathers, the formulists,foucault and the prisons,men going free, the eye going mad. we could be anything—we could be silver bubblescoming up fast,exploding in today— today— today.

poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)

i put hope on the ceiling fan and turned it on and watched it fling off and splatter on the walls; my mother will be pissed, but I want her to know that the blue and the black now coating her plaster is how I feel, most of the time. for context, mother, let me… Continue reading poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)

poem: friends

the earth was spinning down into sunset and I put on—welcome to the black parade. you said you knew it maybe, you hummed to the chorus, to the rise and fall of one thousand suicides, one thousand children deciding—not tonight. we are the same people, we are split into different bodies. I could tell you… Continue reading poem: friends

poem: even the expressionists could not capture it

he has become worth a great many things—she reflects in the mirror, waiting for him, trying to think how to explain: I feel calmer this time, but everything is more extreme. I am crashing into myself with a neck- breaking speed before only reserved for the real breaking of necks, when pretty girls fall from… Continue reading poem: even the expressionists could not capture it

poem: self-delusion, always in style

there is a dream: right now, he is far away, in London and Japan, and he is not remembering her: he is all symbol, not enough boy. There's no sex when it's only literary, didn't the blood on your lips teach you that, or the blood inside that cute boy in the journalism class, the… Continue reading poem: self-delusion, always in style