“enlightenment” is shadowed by “many a sacrifice or vengeance.”
moonlight dogs the invalid like a signature
I never say this, but, it wasn’t perfect before you either.
little greasy continents of you
tock tock tock, drop, rolls, to the left,
Grecian dress, high resolution, every translucent transparent.
The only thing I could see was bats,
The pumice was too light.
do not forget
to set fire to
it depends on what continent you mean
he’ll be here when you leave
But still there are things that no one should pay for
But what if it’s an actual swan
Time means nothing
Like rock fans in the summer
Herman Munster moves in the shadows
Skulls laugh and smoke cigarettes
Incredible, the shapes a crowd can take:
pyramid, tentacle, and wave.
forgets what started it
and crucify your darlings,
goes to the tramp parked in the field I want
No, Shadow, I don’t need you.
setting doesn’t love twice.
A branch in my way joy.
I have no windmills.
O come again,
the porch is getting night.
Tree in the Wal-Mart, my eyes
Trails gulls through a dead
No audience with God.
No but the word used its singular delay
We sucked antler's marrow
and poured a bronze cast.
of my youth.
We ran out
and afterward that night wasn’t running out.
A flame in soft focus.
Now it will be for the sour grit
of pill against wet throat.
“Moreover, it exceeds all other disorders in intensity”
The flies I can’t get rid of
to lose myself in decades unnoticed
under long thin blue bulbs in hallways
old salt never hard your friends said
buying up misunderstood spaces
of cleverness and love
Another satellite image but still no plane
We'll make a fire tomorrow
She looks to her man, then Grendel,
deceitful as a wish, a wish caustic enough
to make a genie sulk back to his bottle.
Living in the sawdust was looked back on as
“ill-advised,” like George Washington said a lot.
Guilty of faith, our pillars our pets, you
he seemed to have anticipated theory at every turn
He’s glimpsed too
Much of heaven
punish those desiring punishment.
afraid of capture
you can listen to the shifts
You loathe good poems in pain
to an airbus than to swans in flight
God knows how you can get a date with all those arms.
A woman goes forth with what she is given.
the world in a laptop glow
lots of space and nothing sacred
I will no longer hurl adjectives at a tree
Advertising herself with gunshot blinks
The boy screaming bridge episodes under winter
He became a dictator
when I forgot god in that
dark turn (of events)
This is a bad poem / by a lady poet.
Bribery addresses an underlying sense that life is, as the poem’s speaker observes, “a dipshit.”
As if we've had not enough crosses
Who is being pleasured by this thing? And somehow the catharsis I create when talking about oppression of women of color, or immigrants, or detainees, is still allowing a catharsis for many of these people who feel guilty about oppression in their own backyards, and in your performance surrounding sexuality, it’s like isn’t it nice you got to think about these issues and also be pleasured by the gaze that’s in you, that you can’t get rid of… there’s something there that needs to transition that cathartic moment, and ask whose catharsis am I privileging?
We don’t need our brains to live on the earth
It is a needle through the land
Through her stomach
This was a formal, clinical ceremony
And I can masturbate freely up the hill to climax
While grandpa sleeps in the other room
Confession of his grief to a friend, a principal cure of melancholy.
Trill through heart encrusted mournful belting
St. Elmo’s fire at the cattle’s horn tips
makes blue-white reflect on the dam,
seen early—only—by them.
The sauna boulders steam
like a wide open mouth in winter.
and my face, streaked
with occasional siren reds and blues.
Startling at each other’s touch.
Such pent-up electric joy
of my younger self.
I was the hybrid. I sewed my brutal double-helix into a child
Your man’s a sad balloon
and love was an afternoon hovered over
to pity the need you must
punish the stone
and you will climb out of your
glass has a greenness
Like parts of some distant being
That remain disparate
Long enough for each look
I’d rather try to hold
It in my hands after
If you do not speak up for the body,
the wrong person will speak for it.
their recklessness, the delicate building
back to square one after a failed
denied you can’t hear zero
If an entire
family is overweight, chances
are the dog is too.
welded to the lever-ends, an arm
lifts twenty whispered seconds
your voice returned to me, a living
The ransom’s house
Spins spider holes, races air
In a gossamer globe.
thrust yet shim a donut, nothing
touched, I’ve read of halos
Most mornings, despite the argument the pome
Calmly orates, which propagates complaint for
Which one would rise against,
I quit writing poems
and joined the social media class
a kind of prayer
my answers fall flat.
love forever changes
Both moon and ocean, solo and whole.
I don’t answer, so no one does.
You were prayed over
so very many times
Hunters are quick to say
Their relationship with their dogs
Is never mere ownership
Dunno. What say we start
with the old one-two?
The dissolving surf and sand are shadow
of a boat
the cigarette-dazed clatter
of dishes & post-hipster waiters
Death, she favors the wounds of her child
and so no longer strikes him.
His shamelessness emboldened by the robe I wrap him in.
Surely this could not be the present
from which I would ﬂee,
cradled in wild green arms
stewing in its own juices.
from the miner’s hand
Either all or no angels arrive in the mind where the plant is.
He owns a good number of cars
and a small Coke factory.
what $8.25 an hour
in a Kia
the can of gas
The artist should not be a mindless bush or a dripping crystal.
No longer a cause of caustic complaint
I paint you here in the infamous locker
We will be ruled by small machines no doubt of wonder and science
He is being carried by a handful of sparrows
As if he were a tangle of twigs
An asp being charmed by a man reading from a book
the present time is in fact
an honest glancing piece of equipment
bullhead wedged in a tree.
He’s an old man
sleeps with water
sitting on the nightstand.
If you’ve ever wanted to swim
in aspic this is your chance.
thus the curse
of the poet
life’s a bro
and then you die
someone said our village will never
be loved again
the person you’d become, in relief against a shadow
I future our grain
follow its lines to fruit
when I’m just me and meet sleep
There are places besides Mill Street, Massachusetts.
in Jerusalem under
But enough. I’m starting to get upset again.
Everything is real if you believe the sun is large.
Can I answer you in Italian?
Home is a lampshade, and it's everywhere I'm not.
Home is for radios and dolphins.
That's when you create orchestras.
That’s when you read Sappho.
How do you feel when the world exists too rapidly?
Do you run laps around museums?
Like analogies without bears.
Like going home for the first time.
I had the Saved by
the Bell soundtrack on CD.
Used to listen to “Friends Forever”
driving to take the train to the city.
How he threw all the things you loved down the incinerator.
In some states depending on the laws
you’re an accessory by being
desert of fishbones and formations
so primal only a pastry chef in a time
of ascendant decadence could mimic
I wrote in my notebook
oceanographers drinking water—irony?
I haven't saved a single survivor, nor been motivated to extend my spleen for rescue's purposes.
The fact of the body
somehow not only your stomach
mirth of spheres music
When in Paris she had taken regular internet lessons
at the Crèmerie.
the Southern parliament
from the Segway Squads Templar
the coffee shop white men leer
latitudinally for verily unto thee
they are made of coffee, plaid shirts.
we had to ask
No more insects while walking in the opposite direction.
What kind of insects, very large ones that talk.
In frustration of this natural authority, outright contempt, they chose to speak on behalf of the ill mannered.
Sleep darkness silence, a little truce like a goat’s beard, fascinating device.
Pico de la Mirandola and the dignity of humans.
Jenny, Benny, and their money encounter a passing breeze.
The thread weaving me from experience to experience is invisible to me.