Hear it this evening, rusted lace fingers and remnants of dirty flame. It has a large mouth, though never eyes on that gaping face. Sings with empty room voices: oil and metal, dustrag fumes, wood polish shallows. … Read More
As my pearly whites crunch into the powdered sugar, chew it like thick, hot sand, as my tongue melts it to stained glass, as I pray to baby Jesus sucking on his lollipop, as his first molar waits to come … Read More
Tissue paper face held over a match. Night dangles from rafters, perfume chemicals burn. Daylight burns like faces on the screen skin-soft, bleached and bloody. Picture this: grey background, rose buds flailing. Narrow angles abstract and brief … Read More
The sidewalk outside is wet. So is my swing hanging from the orange tree branches, and my pink boots by the door that hurt. I like to draw the same picture over and over, a different bedroom from mine scratched … Read More
(There’s something off about this moment, a beauty mark on the day. I’m feeling small and alone, far away from home and homesick for my car.) it is late october and a discarded napkin swirls in the wind, imitating … Read More
We haven’t learned the right tense: the cliché of red leaves falling, your choice of hazelnut cold foam atop my cold brew, that dead squirrel we mourned for because despite the newborn tents we couldn’t have brought her back. Why … Read More
Said, softly October crushes down, squeezing the juice of summer and all the faces are new fresh new Mouths fallen heaps of gloss and lips Sit. Sleep. October crushes, and leaves curl on asphalt like fingers. The leaves … Read More
We need to arrête all of this liquid: bridges lawns psets towels gmail caffeine with the face of a dog barking in the north courtyard alongside teeth digging into flesh like that subtle ascent of adjectives … Read More
After zooming out this afternoon that held focused possibilities like a hand reaching into the backlit arteries of a bokeh I filtered my reflections through your shutter and tore off Fuji film rolls from your skin still … Read More
When one thinks of a ‘game,’ hears its notes playing and effects sounding, Like a pot smashing or a brick bashing, When one smells a game, The cellophane of a case, or the rubber of an analog stick, When one … Read More
Freshman year she called, crying We’ll never know what it was or how it came to be. She never showed the signs on her stomach and the signs she wore long on her face were those of the boy hands … Read More
