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… Continue reading poem: guilt

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

writing: in these years, we just give up

When I woke up my teeth were sticky with plaque; this is the fourth or maybe the sixth time this week I have woken up and remembered that last night, I did not brush my teeth. Last night, I did not do anything, except lie on the floor and eat the chocolate taffy from Wisconsin… Continue reading writing: in these years, we just give up