But there’s no cup, no / kitchen. Just one mouldy / statue, dreaming of television.

Torn textbooks at Widener Library or seeping 
Inkwells those Cajal axons 

out in the Everglades, no resurrection
just a rotting boy's corpse

the day i was born i was yellow and poisoned and anxious.
and they put me under a sunlamp and burned it out of me.

On the train to Avenue du Roi Albert, I knew that this would be the last time I would see her. Feeling time slip over my fingertips like waterflow, I decided I would savor the experience as fully as I

I laugh and say, “is that a Rupi Kaur poem?”

a friend of mine once said that [Fresh, Green Life] is My Year of Rest and Relaxation for boys.

Drug Plane

I was fifteen, then sixteen, then twenty. My high-school friend was my now college roommate. His stepfather was less mysterious but more compelling. He was having trouble with his

A recap of New York's biggest night.

We are like dogs in a dog park, smelling each other, breathing together

Part of making art is religiously making as much as you can when creatively inclined and then shaping what’s there.

We're asked to think about examples of unconscious bias and I think about the guy who goes to

Heaven but it's Chinese.

            If Miami were a person, she would have veneers from the same dentist who does her Botox

Because isn’t that the true nature of love, protecting each other from our wickedest parts?

Victoria Brooks is the author of Silicone God (MOIST Books/House of Vlad) a queer sci-fi novel. Jack Skelley is author of The Complete Fear of Kathy Acker (Semiotext(e)), and Myth Lab: Theories of

Tina joins our class mid semester. Instantly, I dig her aura. She shares the relaxed gait and slow drawl of the local stoners. She wears her dark hair flat and parted down the middle and has an

The moon men decided to come to Earth because they didn’t like the way the Earth people were always staring at them. Whenever they looked up at that enormous blue orb through their telescope, the

Last spring was the last spring.

Take another fry to further the feeling.

Over coffee, he told me he thought I dumped him last time because we had sex too soon.

If I was a dog, I wouldn't be responsible for my own life.

Neither a drop of white wine into the danube canal, nor a gunshot through the roof of my mouth, but something in between

On the lawn, sprinklers bend the light with no greater purpose

448.

The East German dramaturge Heiner Müller adopted Brecht’s notion of Kopien (German for ‘copying’ or ‘sampling’), the practice of regarding texts by others as material to be used, imitated,

It’s got good bones, everyone kept telling us. Who knows.

I see them right there plain as day, two-dimensional prints, sacred geometry, my life is full of meaning.