good afternoon, passengers. this is your captain speaking. first of all, i would like to welcome everyone to my midlife crisis.

The knife turns, but blood in your teeth isn't poetic, even when I almost enjoy it

He’s dreaming. I can touch him softly when he sleeps. I can watch his body heave and rest. We need this. 

Vicodin is why I was smiling

Have the dream where everything is perfect; then wake up.

I felt the snap. A fool outrunning the weather, only to find out I was still too much.

Masterpiece

I see the world askew.

There’s a storm inside

my window,

inside my gemstone eyes.

There’s an army

in my fist,

fighting all my friends.

So, bring me splattered

I tried to see another way / and you shimmered / glitch-like / like a god. 

Her love can grow 18 feet in a year / roots deeper than a well / Her appetite can leave you hollow / pulling away, yet drawing near

déjà vu; the present doing / an impression of the past; / an inversion of echoes; / resonance as viewed through / bed posts; a forest of legs / under a row of tables.

These days the dead feel / more alive than the living

I’m sorry my body keeps becoming a metaphor. / I’m sorry I kissed every sign looking for the thing it signified. / I’m sorry I wanted proof.

i don't own a time machine / so here i am gargling syrup / at waffle house at 2:13 a.m.

hella errands before dark / hella bros still on the clock

Blue auras transmitted in a backroom, patched / by metal through our fingertips. The reality of my / posture in Polaroid, bloated figure at home in some / crowning, dispiriting frieze.

In a house, lungs are the window. Organs, vases on shelves in rooms. Visitors are light.

they’re starting to appeal to women
who had written them off as lunatics.

Everyday hajj to the blackdesk obelisk. 

Train back and forth.

I am five minutes tall, seated at my desk.

I shrink by seconds, bored and melancholic.

if i / am left with lack, let it be / infinite, stretching further / than any man’s tongue

Sometimes I wake up to my own asthma / making small morse codes.

if you listen to duran duran while prancing around in nature and it's mostly overcast, you will feel like you're missing, but not loved enough to be put on a milk carton

Amazing fucking Grace, 

tell them 

how you’re production 

and I’m consumption

and how we mess around 

with gender roles 

Rawdogging reality
isn’t for the faint of heart

Fun Legs

Vaguely, like in somebody else’s dream,
one of those strange cell-phone settings ringing.
No it’s the doorbell. Forgot we had one.
I slip on my Hyatt Regency robe.

It’s almost happy

Have you ever wondered why that voice in your head telling you to try harder doesn’t sound like your voice?