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

poem: the brothers karamazov. pt. 1 – fields.

oh! alyosha alyosha why do you insist on the sitting, the side-lining, the great country of thisnothingness has been brought down to you; cup it in the palms of your hands, cup it! I drank russia like an after-party, the red spilledall over my dress, my little virgin legs, my throat always clenching --up! --… Continue reading poem: the brothers karamazov. pt. 1 – fields.

poem: hamlet

my mother ran out of my sore emotions/ my rawopen mouth, with her hair on fire. pushkin heard there was plagueup ahead, in the estates at bodin, and said fuck it. he wrote well there, the universe the gods came and sat, wondering at him: guess this is mozart, guess the rest of us can… Continue reading poem: hamlet

poem: ‘muse’

the christmas tree divorced in the window, the ce n'est pas real tree -- she is wearing a red sweater, the thread caughtat the edge of her neck, the cotton peter-pan collar. when she coughs the spit rides up her throat in a divorced ball and he, watching, imagines taking it out, colliding it, marrying… Continue reading poem: ‘muse’

poem: molly

australian shepherd, destroyer of worlds & (stuffed) lambs little sentinel, keeping watch over the sun-bent deckwith her ears pressed back. the whole of the world isbehind her — myself, typing. my sisters painting and my mother, hanging the blue-whorled swedish plates. all of us, her little women. she was bornin larger skies — hung over the… Continue reading poem: molly

poem: oxbridge

he came from his side of the bed: whiteshirt, white sweater, whitetrousers with the cresses pressed in, as if he was a gothic romantic caricature of the fine, last old age, aging likeyoung wine, the dorian grey bright and apparent andhelium-esque on his face, he took my thinwhite hands inside his own,unworked, thin hands --… Continue reading poem: oxbridge

poem: western montana

my mother birthed me into stranger places -- the mountains shornand shot up, as if Ithere, was one of them: too-big blue sky fit like a salt-block into my open mouth, deer- and oxen-child. if I had been born into a city, the masturbatory smoke andskyscrapers cut up around me, think -- what a little… Continue reading poem: western montana

poem: letter to myself

the only thing I could imagine piercing me todayis the long cat-vomit pink, stretch, of sky -- and after driving home, the awareness of the earth that would notaccept or come into me, the places I will not go because they are outside, and I cannot? cannot! leave this bedroom, the walls bent in and… Continue reading poem: letter to myself

poem: they say, men fall off the bottom curve of the earth

he bit into her — in long, sloping strides, and theirAfter was like the fall of Troy, her dress caulking down to herankles in the same violet waves, as she had seen, in the leavingof the wooden places she called Now, and now in his comingbetween her, the ships rising and firing and not ever,… Continue reading poem: they say, men fall off the bottom curve of the earth

poem: writing camilla

he slept on the desk, in half-glacier grandsnow sweaters, the pine trees and cardinal birds, their throatsbright and ready! red, sloping down to his hands --big and masculine, and knotted up fromwriting her, sad long letters; when the day swept to a small close, the trees leaning in, snow falling off and conjoining; he slept… Continue reading poem: writing camilla