poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)

I want to have God even in the dark places so that I am not writing revels or anthems but writing glass, writing kitchen-windows so ninety people can see inside myself, inside the chaotic parts where my mind is already on fire, already dancing like tomorrow is myth. So that when I say "I am…

poem: the artist in hell, justified

she is perfectly halved: she is pouring black paint into the mouths of strange boys, her body all light under the strobe lights, her neck cut into diamond pieces by the sex moans made by singers too punk to be human. And she is reading at the window ledge her feet curled under a skirt…