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,… Continue reading poem: ‘lofi for anxiety’ on spotify

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… Continue reading poem: love story, spring

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… Continue reading poem: book review

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,… Continue reading poem: breasts and eggs

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… Continue reading poem: storm

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… Continue reading poem: the art of fiction no. 1

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… Continue reading poem: the sun also rises

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… Continue reading poem: everybody wants to get right back to the chorus

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… Continue reading poem: the liar is the girl from last spring

poem: clinical subterfuge is not a diagnosis

but give it twenty-years time, give it a lot of desperate people. they say gender is performance but only (honestly) class is performance, class is shunted offon the everyday sexual life on the everyday person, all madepolitical so someone, in a fifteen-thousand-dollar apartment, can readthe new yorker and mastrubate without guilt. the blue night comes… Continue reading poem: clinical subterfuge is not a diagnosis