poem: girl / woman

I was in love with a boy -- and I felt the greataching crashing loneliness inside him. come and envelope me at three a.m. on the couch. ask me aboutthe books I haven't read, the panama canal and how I wanted to throw myself off it. epiphany: you will be sad anywhere because you will…

poem: guilt

I have given up the intellect, the trying mad times of the morning sent and kafka fucking me carefully over my mouth. I never read hisdiary. I have read nothing -- I spin my mouth open carefully into the long reeds of morning, I am sitting in last summer with bananas and honey and the…

poem: ‘lofi for anxiety’ on spotify

my hands are very dry -- tonight. and in the raw grate of myhead ten-thousand people would fuckme, and then sit with me in coffee shops and I would say, if I wentto grad school, the only thing I would write my thesis on is the mythologicaland archetypal basis for bad boy/good girl ships. like,…

poem: love story, spring

in the sticky wet parts of your eyes -- do you remember --the unfortunate, maniac -- me? and my -- powerstruggle. so that I am where I am today. and the universe will bendto me if I lick it. and you willbend to me if I bend down, lick your -- and the spring fell…

poem: book review

my stomach was in disarray -- I called my editor at five in the morning and said I cannot writea review for this kind of book. where the father leavesand the daughter grows up alone. I know that kind of book already, it isa weed around my ribs. I take it out on my mother…

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: storm

the faucet is on so the pipes don't freeze; throughout my wholebreakfast and coffee-drinking ritual, the water is a silentlurker in the background. i have never read Faust, but somethingin this snowstorm makes him omnipresent; he is a man and he isstanding in the snow. watching me naked through the window. i puton an old…

poem: the art of fiction no. 1

my aunt is a poet, my aunt is this old womanwho sits framed in windowsills and does not recognize the windowsill, the divide between inside/outside, she tells that shitlike it is; that is the privilege of being old, when I talklike that, people call me a bitch. but all I am doing is telling the…

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: everybody wants to get right back to the chorus

hero-ika mad, her name was something foreign, she hadpre-raphaelite posters on the wall, new yorkertote bag tucked like a third armunder the anthropologie coat. can't you imagine fucking -- her? neither can I, in this culture, we don't fuck anymore / at all; everything is online, everything is ironic. and the warm air went softly…