poem: the kids from yesterday

we are people waiting in the sunlight, going after stimulus after stimulus after stimulus. we are disenchanted: girls sitting, stitching embroidery into pants— boys making suits from torn-off skins, the flesh still wet and rotting. we are taken from text and retold as myth: a New Generation, all jazzed all pixelated, reliving 2003 like we…

poem: the artists

lying across icecream sheets and smoking cigarettes, with the glowing nubs held ladylike between fingers like it's the 1920's. he was so perfectly confident among the freaks and they rejected her. anything utopian and egalitarian is a lie. turning on her back with her hair curling onto the mattress and nicotine hissed up under her…

writing: there is only so much a person can take

There is only so much a person can take before they lose themselves. It's a sort of cracking, with the pieces falling away like blood-music, like the skinny feathers you can't hold in your hands with the memories coming like fire and water; it's your mother looking at you in the kitchen and shaking her…