Thursday, October 25, 2012

i'm always returned
to bike rides on Rising Son
a stranger in my home town
leeching strength
from the dilapidated row houses
in my neighborhood
we get close to what
poisons us carressing it
not letting anything
permeate but aroused by
the sweet toxic proximity
of thanatic lust

you said that you're
okay if you stay away
from needles and
my god if in that moment
i didn't want to crawl up
the dropper's neck
and drown with you

but instead we wrapped
our arms around each other
and we drank the
expatriated autumn air

i need to work on this
but i won't
i'm weary to death
of this false transparency
glass walls
are just walls
and more terrible
is the flood that you
can see bubbling with anger
and shrieking behind the fracturing levy

Monday, March 19, 2012


this is not the side
of you you'd like me to
see you said but which side
do i show i am a
curator of addiction and
dissolution and the occasional
smatterings of bumbling
success the next girl
must always be the
best girl and she is
until your best girl
is a slight autumn breeze
and you are left stroking
yourself and gauging the
inbound and outbound
itineraries of certain birds
and making gods
of withered tea leaves
where is the naked love
of my youth if not
burrowed deep in your
cherokee eyes

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Carnival in Louis Armstrong park
This feels like perhaps it
Should be significant or
Could be or
The jazz wheel in
The treme
Is something literary
God am I fucking

This maybe is what
It's like to lose one's mind
To speak in the royal we
Like you're a surrogate
Or a petri dish
I'm so terrified
Of the trappings of

I don't know if I'm
Laughing or crying or
Why I can't be the Cardinal
Why I can rent horses
On Macinac or why
It's so perturbing to be
Grandiose and all
My problems find their
Solution here with
Your head in my lap
Looking out across
The marbled bricks

Raindrops fall like
Dappled slugs I am
Reaching for excuses to use

The treme
A place on television
If someone found me
I hope they'd stage my death
As holding more intrigue
They'd hang me up
Like strange fruit
And pluck me
For some strange purpose

All I can think about is you
All I can think about is being


Sunday, February 5, 2012

black bottom spoon
and powder on the table
come too late
come too soon
bubbling black venom
on a black bottom spoon

Friday, February 3, 2012

on my 24th birthday
i find myself a miner
for small pleasures
an author of small
fictions a lover of
small women and
it's no small wonder
that the world seems
smaller today than
it ever has or ever will

the subatomic makeup
of a man's heartspace
years of study and all
it means is that we
get better and better
at parsing the signifiers
of those with the courage
to give and receive love
throwing caulk and spare
thumbs into the holes
we find in the rough hewn
and ponderous levees
of our dearest friends
whom we collect
like pondstones

it is true also that some men
dedicate their lives to the
taxonomy of certain rocks