I sip red wine and weed / and deface anything that looks like me

montreal

in the seventh month of winter
my hair was orange, an apricot
graffiti zig-zagged along broken
threads you parked... more

SUSHI

umami fish in dead cold
sticky rice clings to
gum. take another slab– tell
yourself you are the
ocean, that you... more

Suggestion

new boyfriend says he’s worried. new boyfriend says i should stop saying credit cards are just free money. new... more

I finally tore Bluets in half @ 12:50 a.m.
I had had enough of it, of its blueness…
I had begun to loathe its preciousness, its precision
What it represents -
Its fans, the copycats

Chicken à la King

I bit. We bred a snoutless dog to lead
us to the prize. We groomed ourselves
with yearning floss. You... more

now the poem is a woman

reach inside the incision
up the stomach from the asshole
ribcage gristle light brown mound of heather memory

spill... more

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
~ W.B Yeats, ‘The Second Coming’

One... more

Under the cruel glow of inquiry, I want to tell her that the party is over.

Hurry, tomorrow’s ashen face is at your door.
Hold out your hands, two tiny suns,
you’re more golden than they ever told you.

You’re from the cornfields, I tease, but not really. Your parents, professors at U of Illinois, both versed in the theories of music,... more

I grew up in grass but here / everything is bladeless, // hair thinned past feathers, / sheets slick enough to grease a boar.

We walk to the edge of the continent / and there in the sand I turn to her and say, / look,
this is where I buried myself 

 Most nights we stayed behind, Tweety Bird / pajama shirts stretched over our knees, waist-length hair soaking / our backs as we sat on the floor and thumbed glossy 10mm prints.

It’s winter and again
my knees are beginning

to ache. My wants

I’m going out
to snag a man. 

my parents taught me to say ‘surrender’
in a dozen foreign languages.

the night of the attack

mother did you hear them
they had tongues like lightning
and forked through the forest
shooting the... more

Is there ever a time to think of poetry? Of poets? Of the rivers of the delta? 

Subtraction, division,

rabbit bones, rabbit lives

sometimes i wake up in empty fields, waiting for the aliens to take me. they haven’t yet,  but any day now, i’m sure.

I am David Attenborough. / I fear no mountain. / I fear no crane. / I fear no plastic bag.

And somehow I’m supposed to get dressed in the morning / when most days arrive like a gold chain tangled in black chest hair.

 Please, I need those thick markers from the craft store, you know, the ones that color far away from each other; you turn the corner into golden golden golden any night