In this piece, the sculptor will sculpt herself sculpting. 

Lying next to her, I wrote the last chapter of the Bible and surrounded our bed with Doritos.

through the hole in / your Reeboks I contemplate our future.

Just This Morning

A New Jersey train derails and crushes the station.
I wake slow, make coffee on the other side of the... more

I said to the / ceiling fan / I am here / to break / the sadness.

most of the time / i am / bored and warm

such good

I push a cloud out of my head
and stretch my ankle
I move forward like a spherical knife
not actively trying to... more

blm land

this belt of the nation feels equally
bible and rust and sun, where
mute billboards offer us
teeth cleaning for... more

I started watering the houseplants on a regular basis—this

after watching the dead multiply for the years I spent watering... more

Let’s create fake accounts and try to seduce each other. 

I can almost split your face in two.

I want him to know that we’re the same.

It’s not the enormity of the half-eaten doughnut. 

Because I love in the manner of eating I am sure whatever I take from you will pass.

As a girl I played with dolls, sang
soprano, wore sparkly eyeshadow from
Claire’s. It never felt good to be called sir.

The man who bought Hitler’s bed did not have nightmares as a child. 

You were the hands

Woke up alone today in my own bed
after a solid sleep for the first time

in over three weeks, feeling strange there,
almost... more

I carve horses out of watermelon. I swallow / fish eyes like gum drops. I pray under / neon chandeliers, string chrysanthemum / in my hair. 

i think i was an onion in a former life / i think you chopped me / lord how high were we last night

Remember the word “party line”? It meant that everyone in your town who wanted to could hear exactly what you were saying. How fucked up is that? Wasn’t that great?

Remember when every stray dog was a love story and the snow that night cleared the crust that had gummed my eyes shut? No, me neither, but fuck it. Let’s get lit one last time. 

O, I don’t get wet for / the Hot Dads of US Weekly or the dad / bods of Star, but give me Frank Sinatra’s / voice crooning in a Hong Kong cab, and I’m hooked

 I wish I had that glorified high school / experience— where some boys / are chugging expired strawberry liqueur / and everyone, I mean everyone, / is sprawling on the grasscarpet

When I exhaust all other forms of exploration, / this landscape will deny me at the border; / & I will turn my gaze toward a darkening / sky filled with stars I no longer recognize.