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?

She’s gone. Stop knocking.

What did I do today.

I walked through Costco
dissociated,
watching a woman who looked like me
push a cart
like this is the world.
Like this is what we’re

Fury Psalm 6:

Let there be a God, an earth, seasons weathered through a time
for this, for that, for breathing and for holding one’s breath.

Let there be seasons when the moon has nothing to be

Lie here with me, if only for a while.

then
the eagle is healed

She walks around like a colt in a kitchen I don’t know, bluish crescent bruise on her calf flashing every couple of turns at me.

I would take you as you are and were
over all this dead air.

Am I too old?              Nah,

I’ve yet to wear

my trousers rolled.

But      this morning

coffee in bed,              my wife 

and I scrolling — 

Hers:               prison

I left Texas to have him. Not for him, but for me: so that I would survive.

i wonder how hard it is for her to 

reconcile being a Christian and a witch

judge and judged. how easy 

cause that is all we knew 

we drank liquor, smoked crack, 
escorted prostitutes around in our car,

hoping for a bisquit, or a small dead bird,
a song sweetly sung; that no one ever heard.

And I wonder if we are always standing at the street corner eating each other’s hearts.