I remember Marc said, you’re wet just because of the humidity.

Joni says, “Time moves so fast these days.”

                  Joni is somewhere between three and four times my age and I am twenty-two.

Located at Oak Park Rd. and Forest Preserve Rd. in Chicago,
you must park about a mile away and make the trip to the en-
trance on foot. 

hell you know it’s only a question of dainty morsels
you can eat dog food probably and survive

It is something like a nuisance that you exist. But I have headphones to help ignore

It hasn’t been this way since her lips met a bee
in a beer can the summer before seventh grade. This made her
feel like Jesus. 

Y’all’re fine ass. Y’all got dark in the pill-bottle-orange sun

I went to a poetry reading and a guy I’d slept with once read a list of everything he’d done in Los Angeles and I wasn’t on it. 

I imagine her
walking into my bedroom—Drunk

between her legs, the whole world
the same temperature; 

I ask the sun to call me at night on my walk home. Everyday I become a little more... more

Don't high five me for drinking a 40.
Don't ask me for a Newport.

there are days without. Not quite a gap in whatever they call it, the space-time continuum or circadian rhythms or the tidal pull of every single thing, not quite, but noticeable enough to know what’s not here, that others are not here,

Instead I see embroidery, lace-making or metallurgy, fine filigree of rusting swing set against wood, the vertical birdfeeders foregrounded, but so close my eye misses them at first. I don’t know what to call this world anymore.

I want to call you and sing the Prince song, discuss the proportions of his tiny frame, imagine his tongue together, stay on the phone for hours like we used to. Those days are gone. 

I imagine Temperance Brennan's annual gynecological exam might go something like mine: If you're not finding time to eat, you must not be having a lot of... Are you seeing anyone right now?

You smiled before you saw the blood. / Pointed your baseball bat / At an invisible rustling, / And put your finger to your lips.

I lie night after night
With the only one I hate more than myself

Artisanal meth is amazing

The whitetail flit across the road,
tails raised in greeting or surrender,
a herd—a small stampede—crossing
this rural Iowa highway,... more

TRIDENT LISP

When tenderness runs out there is tenderness,
Jonathan says.  We hand-in-handed but days
ago to the hiss of ocean... more

ZAZEN AT THIRTY-SIX

When I was twenty, Emily called me
from her dorm room. She wanted to know
if I believed in God, something... more

Talking Heads: Stop Making Sense

David Byrne is magic. Not, like, figuratively: really. He knows card tricks and makes bunnies... more

I
     
i dedicate this poem
to the first 15 years
of the twenty first century.
it's name is "citrus".
i call it... more

That was the night Gabby and I drank the bottle of bourbon next to the makolet.
In America, we call them mini-marts, but in Israeli... more