They call one bulldagger.
I heard them say she spreads women’s legs that's all
she does, but I know her. She builds
entire worlds where their mouths cannot go,
their eyes cannot perceive.
What th…
I want to be: a good boy, your domesticated coyote.
My tongue’s handwriting is the shape of your body
unshaved and without a shower.
They need us to feel disgusted
with ourselves, so you commit
…
I’m on the floor again, and that isn’t a metaphor for rock bottom. My new therapist asked me how I did it. How I managed to keep myself safe all these years. For the first time in over a decade, I wa…
We open with a stationary shot of me in my office, a pride flag on the wall behind me. An offscreen bonfire flickers in my eyes, and the savvy viewer will read this as a symbol of both passion and hu…
In August it’s hard not to want –
everything heavy with it – ginkgo fruit
rots on sidewalks, sweat falls down spines,
the whole beast city breathes in smog and breathes out
low clouds dropping ligh…
We learned to love the birds.
The backyard bird
with her black cap and white cheeks.
The flicker so flirty
in his polka dot dress and red scarf.
The bus-stop-bird
who mocked us each morning
w…
We failed, you & I, to care for plants we potted at the start of summer—lamb’s ear & lavender, one for each pocket. You told me you loved to stroke the soft fur of the hedgenettle & the smell of your…
They say it can’t be,
but it is, perfect.
What they don’t know
is that clocks
circle the drain
like pasta water,
unasked questions
we both know
answers for. After
some time we
actually did be…
It’s not about who made the mistake
with the wrong address in the GPS getting
us to Brooklyn an hour late, is it?
It’s about your retirement and our finances,
and a 20-something living in our hous…
that's a euphemism—yes, i have cavities,
but it means i am bullet train, bound
for collision. i am jar of marbles broken
across a concrete floor. i am the rise
of the seas. what i lack in control i m…
Here we are among snow
and ash. Cracked from saw or
harsh November winds. We
are wood always moving. Bit
of flesh from birch, oak, cedar.
Stacked for burning. Once I was
home to a little ant, h…
On PCH
somewhere
Malibu—
going north not
quite yet at
Point Dume,
two biker boys,
not quite men,
stopped at
a red light.
Underneath hiero-
glyphic hand signs
a single red rose
in hand
outstretched…
Talking shit, like you know about cracked knuckles and flamin hots with pickle juice. Or the broken heat lamps on the El, or getting high off a lakefront. Yesterday, I counted every duck at the lake …
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