poem: lately i have been thinking about heat

and the way the desert, as an idea,sits apart and reacts to you. it is watching to see if you will make it out alive. or if you are one of the dead girls strungup first economically and then aggressively or if you arethe red stain left across the hands and thealtar. as long as…

poem: the sense of reading a Japanese novel.

the spangled aspect of things, the clench which will -- always be withme, laying too long in bed too much a half hour, the ocean madand white with spray on the beach -- always in myhead. when we walked on the marina in the salt-air I thought, this isa place I could live. the light…

poem: breasts and eggs

she is standing in the stairway -- red overalls and shinyblack hair dancing around her neck in the lopped-off way that i always wanted (when i cut my hair shortit is a tempest, a misery.) she is maybe forty, she lookstwenty-five. i want to ask her: why is itwhen i have just gotten overone thing,…

poem: the sun also rises

I have this idea of maine -- the ocean is a small god, a constantalways suicide; there are pine trees like there werepine forests in my childhood, their raging phallic heads high above the fire, the drifting smote, the cow-flysilluminated from behind and turned into fairies. I have this ideaof paris, with long cafe-evenings enveloped…

poem: the liar is the girl from last spring

on the corner of the world i licked out the fringes; the future is justthe new element in the equation of the present, and i ammaking it, i am the / creative. and you, darling, are the road not taken. you lick my neck and my face; yes, at the heart of all this, this…

poem: the brothers karamazov. pt. 1 – fields.

oh! alyosha alyosha why do you insist on the sitting, the side-lining, the great country of thisnothingness has been brought down to you; cup it in the palms of your hands, cup it! I drank russia like an after-party, the red spilledall over my dress, my little virgin legs, my throat always clenching --up! --…

poem: ‘muse’

the christmas tree divorced in the window, the ce n'est pas real tree -- she is wearing a red sweater, the thread caughtat the edge of her neck, the cotton peter-pan collar. when she coughs the spit rides up her throat in a divorced ball and he, watching, imagines taking it out, colliding it, marrying…

poem: colorado rich girl

girl driving home in a beat-uptoyota with the bare legs of spidermen draped overthe cut glass of her open holes, listeningto hey ho hey i'min love with you / you're in love -- but she always saysthe wrong thing, he finds her in the toiletvomiting blood. she pulls herselfapart / inside like the mountains,the old…

writing: hunger and boys and poetry

There was a storm coming and she had run six miles and she was not hungry. She sprawled on the couch and ached pleasurably, but her stomach was ringing hollow. I am going to vomit, most likely. Why the fuck am I not hungry? Why the fuck? It was six miles. The last time her…

poem: Angelika waited for Henri on the sidewalk

she felt that anything that happened; that had happenedpast highschool -- was notreal -- she had three dollars and 81 in the account; she kept herhair in a white ribbon in a queue; she romanticized the vomit on her bathroom floorlike she romanticized her cafe-haunts and the blackcoffee, Listz at breakfast and during poetryreadings and…