I can’t read in Farsi but I taught him how to say kiss, my flower, small, my heart and now the florists know

Fought so hard to be this self— this man in front of you. I’m free to wear pink and piss in the urinal.

Because I am toxic and codependent

Because I am not good for Bruce.

And never, ever write a poem

The best thing for the future of a word like consent is to just stop talking about all of it.

october bumble date

less human. less here.
my mother lost my face and now i’m
everywhere. smeared in public. pulp
in private. self-immolation summer on demand.
i’ll love you all again
at the

Video surveillance is for your safety 

I lost my thought and now I can't do anything but listen 

Writing is only anything if you can sublimate or depreciate the original thing into a

now Icarus has gone swimming and I see him in the Sun

tomorrow is what garfield / hates most of all

There’s a police helicopter in the rainbow!

I’m so happy for Greta Gerwig and all she’s done for gender!

The price is so low when you buy 100 units of Botox at a time!

A psychic told my

Ninety percent of the time 
there are two women.

That thought, that wish,
that plan: your girl.

hello Camel cigarettes, popcorn, and thorns, wires, barbs.

you said you hated me three times

you bit me a hundred and one times

He finally died in midsummer 
when it was hot as hell.

it's time I take me and my broken heart to some other country where girls would kill for me

miserable, swimming laps, aghast with vacancy

may the little coffee cup 
be blown over 
a cheap china pattern 
blue bulbs 

blooms on white 

a single cereal bowl 
from this set disperses 

and appears 
in apartment cabinets 
all over

Moloch Eternal [1969 version}

we see an instant reply
of brains blasted at arm’s length

we gawk in color amazement
at monks posing as scarecrows
dressed in silken robes of flame

we turn

mew mew

All the way up Highland isn’t Burbank, it’s heaven!

Lorena told Sofia to put a drop of her own pee
in her man’s beer
if she wanted him to love her
so she did 
and by God it worked.

“Have you tried hookers?
Church? God? Your dead
mother? Pills? Coke? Crack?”

She began imagining what it might have been like to be Agatha, crying and disheveled with both pale breasts exposed.

In time, the questions become increasingly diffuse, numbers jumble and disappear, the symbolic order smears.