poem: woman vs. truth

his future was in his face,mine is in my crouch: a laundry-listof menial prostitution, bracketing the old crushesand old trauma and old men (hoveringaround the desk, watchingme work). i am reselling myselfday by day, in twenty-twenty-one,trauma is profittrauma is business. he thought he was terriblyoriginal: pretty boy, fucking the systemand then me after. next timei…

poem: savoir complex in maine

he was the summer crashed and crushedinto a boy who did not exist yet; and i remember a noveli was going to write -- about a girl with salted longhair, riding her bikealong seaside cliffs and a boy with black -- hair who worked in a bakery and wanted to kill himself. now when i…

poem: the coffee-shop people

the lights in the coffee-shop are plaguelights; the orange faces of men neutered and hung upsidedown. i am the lonely one, sitting at one of fifteen tables round like breastsand remembering why i studied in university to suchan extent that i had only casual friends; people that collided into my bodylike accidents; and i spent…

poem: touya

the boy he told me i don't believe anymore in the rest of my far away life and i told him none of usdo that is the secret everyoneis lonely and no oneis lonely everyone is separateand languishing

poem: shifting

remember? i dreamed aboutthis kind of bliss but now in the pulled-apart strings of myheart there is onlya dull long ache and the aluminum footsteps of heart-burncoming up from my chest like a foreign man crossing overmy seven boarders his handsstill wet. remember? we were going to takethe world i woke you up in the…

poem: I have lost reality many times

and yet she always come back, that unreliable bitch. you'd think I could let my organs run off in snot safetyfor several hours and not return to disgusting wherewithal when I shower or finally sleep, as if everything wrong with me was merely situational. I can write claimsin mad tongues that I am also doomed…

poem: vendetta for the summertime

i have run through the streets, kicking my breasts before melike two cast-off wheels; i have dyedmy hair from a box,it is red, like the red scraped under my nailsfrom fucking your son. i am kidding of course; i am too busy languishingin hospital beds or the wet parts of my mind, and lately the…

poem: i tell God He has a lot of explaining to do

pain is whati am used to; the baby came outin pieces. do you cryyourself to sleep, at night?sometimes.

poem: reader, she is lonely again

I sometimes have a queerfeeling in regardsto you; so said, janeeyre, that precocious bitch. probably drinking spiked water,in a club in california, and not thinkingabout /him/, or so she tellsthe intrusive thoughts. the gleamof the orange purple dancingpeople is twistedinto her throat; watch the sparrowwrap herself into lightening-rodsand snap, sparkledisintegrate.

poem: us and them

they met on a trainand then did not meetfor manyyears.the girl said, stories must be,by definition, sad and therefore i do notwant a storywith you. the boy said, we have nochoice we are humanand thus doomedto suffer.