There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, and even if I could, I’m not sure I’d be able to tear myself away from a spectacle.
Velocity and the little ache at the very back of the throat.
Doves are an evolutionary look I like
for being so drab.
Y’all heard about war and what happens?
When the barracuda strikes at the glint
it isn’t thinking it’s a necklace that belonged
9,000 texts between you and me.
9,000 texts don’t mean anything.
Of course we understood
the world was over.
a tumbling deer hurled down the collegiate range
Go out and return unhurt. And go out.
To be like lightning.
They say you can’t have honour without water,
and wheat-flour is the daughter of the rain,
and she and all her train have been insulted—
The shame, at its work-desk, busied itself
Almost carelessly, she casts a feather-
tendoned arm over his meagerness.
contain deliberate errors as a sort of signature
and this is how I try to sign everything.
Since the world did not conform to our desire
for instructions, we took to naming things.
keep it light keep it light
You say your publicist is here
My hatred of perfectionism
Oh a stately pleasure-dome decree
I’ve never crushed on fire fighters, but I understand
the appeal of their hive of fire, seduced
I’m waiting in this rowboat
and chewing on bullets.
Time isn’t blessing us
or maybe I lost the key
to the door where confetti pours out.
No need for telepathy – they see
(themselves as stone) emotions,
Dead actors were once impaled in the heart
and buried at a crossroads,
because they embodied characters
a sprawling skyline stanzic unescorted
a recumbent cadence now absorbed in mother's fingerfeel
To rebel against being a woman seemed as foolish to her as to take pride in it. This winking is banal.
Nothing personal. Nothing impersonal, either.
Lord, let me deliver key capabilities
God’s handiwork shows in Jack Lemmon,
we watched a lot of Marvin Hagler
Not hostile, but not agreeable enough. Not dumb, but
not the smartest. Not fake, but not genuine. Not warm,
but not cold either. Not smiling, but not frowning.
A tea bag ﬁlled with cold water.
“enlightenment” is shadowed by “many a sacrifice or vengeance.”
he seemed to have anticipated theory at every turn
what i contain
i only represent
No nametag on his blue uniform.
How to start that conversation?
the word for mango is
the word for ordinary
a practice in equivalence
ordinarily mango, mangoly ordinary
Can't touch clean flowers. Bruises, blue and purple
Orchids spread across our skin.
laid in dahlias how will I die
you extra letter in a misspelled word
say, “I am trying to get to the pit inside you where I lost something valuable.”
The highest gravity called me like drumming in my guts,
or a flare set off.
we were so careless with those silver slings
that flung photonic pharaoh gems to space
then deleted from the world
by a sudden gust of wind
I fell into a bottomless crevasse
queuing for commodities your head
bears the pharaoh's crown & its little asp
but the heliotropic plants can still surprise,
the defensive postures, the hackles
Earth, it’s just dirt under the sun.
Release came through a number of straight-up friends involved in strange poetry scenes
an overturned lantern
a little rabid wolf perched on the threshold
& lavender & turquoise & the woman
At once / each time
It’s Me vs. Them.
a violin case in the passenger seat. the neck tipped down like a bottle being emptied into the sink.
i like to try on formal dresses. ones i can wear during piano recitals or on the rare chance i go to the symphony to see papa play cello.
so the afternoon was devoted
to helping beginners dial into endgame necessities
Our bodies have one life
Sacred to some and to others
Reconstitution’s in vogue, all
that’s solid is old, what we keep
in mind comes back to us. For real,
like, five percent of what we think
Tell me who
is your devil
cloyed across eyelids
myopic edge of night
It’s also a relief to be unloved
he thought to me
there are infinite—
The things around the person bring out their hidden colors. Just
a theory, like economics.
Then, did the pull of the tide fail to mirror
the pulse of the blood towards breath?
To build anything
Terror needs some-
Thing like and not
Diesel soot, a plastic bottle for that lung
Wracked in a good autumn, a Saturday bath.
The artist should not be a mindless bush or a dripping crystal.
This is a bad poem / by a lady poet.
But enough. I’m starting to get upset again.