chew on that witya brainteeth!

mother moon stop calling me

Dogwood 

I knew the blossoms. I caught 
them all. My mother
won’t let me forget this.  
But really, what’s so bad about 
marking this way?  
The tree saying she was this high
the summer she

 between what is love and what is fixation of 

I live my life by white lies.
And poetry is white lies.
Second language is white lies too.
As well as the first.
But language is the only way 
to hide love.
White, black, transparent,
or

I’ll obsess over Hozier all summer.

I engrave myself into the floor

I think the dominator model will always exist in each person, just like each person has partnership qualities. After learning more about history, it does seem to me now that humans are in a process, however inconsistent and drawn-out, of recovering from extreme sexism—which reached absurd levels when people started promoting Yahweh ~3500 years ago, culminating maybe with Christianity around the first century—over millennia.

what a creature I would make of myself if I were able
to be known to be close to anything to be grounded

Naoko knew all too well how difficult it was to imbibe the air of a foreign culture. She had matriculated for a year at the University of Santa Barbara to study saxophone and marked each day as a progression from one shameful moment to the next.

as always, my resolution

is to get a Guns N’ Roses tattoo

//
i wish i
                    can fly
                    was in dixie
                    could quit
                    was on vacation
                    was taller
                   

I told you to stay right there and not move

It’s that night in the summer when your open windows mean nothing, when your bed is just stuffed heat

My daughter stood on tiptoe by the metal grocery cart and told me we needed two more bags of Colby Jack. 

StreetRepeat is an online project curated by photographer Julie Hrudova that aims to recognize similarities and repetition within the genre of street photography. Hrudova arranges each entry on the

He had a disciplined approach to all things that surely came from the military. For breakfast it was always two hard boiled eggs – you imagined he swallowed them whole – but on the road, he allowed one indulgence: a short stack of pancakes.

It’s someone’s job to bury the dead.

LONG DISTANCE CUNNILINGUS 

hi near stranger 
I want to impale 
myself on you

you little wolf-cry
your nostrils flare your eyes flare
you ask me 
am I pretty
with your pretty mouth

your

If I had to choose one moment that convinced me of my own insignificance, it would be that time I saw the world spin.

“I was just thinking about you,” he emailed, a week later. “I’m rereading The Bell Jar.”

I know god is real because persimmons exist.

They were not in Brooklyn, California, a nice suburb outside D.C.

They were in West Virginia.