there is breathing
which is automatic
and there is loving you
and one is easier

Can't spoil what's ahead but suffice to say I may attempt to falsely accuse a fellow indie writer of war crimes in a psychotic bid for even more attention

The homing pigeon / of misery / is my baby mama's / text message.

All of the bedroom was suffering / with his eyes full of wings.

this Christmas

this Christmas i realized
i don’t have a family
i have familiar strangers
i can drink beers with
forget myself with
but not family

ever since I remembered
my mother tried to

i made my mom a swear jar 
and am using the money to buy filet o fish.

I have known / a hunger I would undo / my own good birth to sate
 

There is an attitude in the liberated fetal detachment

If the Internet doesn't drain all the money soon I will kool myself )for real 

I found a wallet today that contained $200, some credit cards, and some family pictures—my family now.

Blood dots my eyelids as the

pewter waves drag you under.

We only know how to give
ourselves to each other when
we're anyone other than ourselves

Your wrist veins distinct next to your wedding band.

It isn't until you pass under a lamp post or are mercifully illuminated by the brakelights of a car that you spring back to life.

Dream Dust

This place is famous for shits and giggles. A real crapshoot throwing the dog ball. You never know where you land. Good luck, they say, if it splats you. Don’t open yr mouth. You’ll

Say thank you
for what they’ve done: the late night call
to AAA, the five spot for a hot dog, the cups
of coffee & scones

The fantasies I’ve been having
Are so awful

We slithered up toward the moaning highway and saw it was being tongued by stretched headlights.

I have come to teach you love / and the solitude that comes / with ultimate strength.

I want to perform for you, pretend to be good enough for you.

but at no point 

does God say 

to a golden calf

“eat lead bitch”

Listen: I promise you soft vowels forever
Hold fast to this butterfly mouth.

I carried Roman water
like a trickster god, for miles
underground

I think I’ve lost the practiced falseness of what it means
to be impossibly young. The fingernail moon
hangs over the welt on my goosepimpled thigh. Where
does the world go when not inside me?

At Cici’s, I was a God.