I’d’ve led him by the wrist. Still but blinding four pm/ back home blazed against the glass.

II. 
A girl and a girl are in love or planning to be.

Under haze of junior-prom fog machines,
       my cells pulsed with
              non-senescence

Your hand had never fully formed, a shadow made of lint & oil. Decades pass, divination is still predicated on how long a candle lasts, how long tea sits in a cup. Coffee? I never touch the stuff.

The last words you will hear in this world/ will be a lie, but when you’re high, you never/ consider how scary Paradise can be/ to snakes

here were girls who sank/ a thousand leagues beneath his hips/ and never bobbed back for air. I came ashore/ in a body of my own, crooked gate/ and piano fingers

A sky
like an enormous
Friedrich Nietzsche-looking
manhole cover
tries to explain your mind
to you.

i challenge my body/ wearing all white/ i lay down/ only to need to sit up/ i lay down i wish i was/ my own alarm

it is in the museum of three years/ that i hide dog teeth and seashells./ your semen in my belly button that/ i secretly finger in the grocery store/ milk aisle.

Tonight a boy goes to a field where he knows a horse has died.

I’m shoving fat candles into dirt, blowtorching the wicks and tooting horns. I couldn’t render enough tallow to... more

April A cycle with seven edges equals my dream of bicycle spokes jutting towards the center of an ice cream bowl.... more

You were dead: tiny birds of glass littered the road like jeweled confetti for a New Year’s bash.

Or more specifically its monster, long tail whisper in our swimming pool: in a valley girl’s mind. 

Dibs In Chicago, we use dibs to take ownership of what we will never own. Traffic cones, rusted patio chairs, strollers, a... more

He started as a single Clay Aiken, the one we all knew with the smiling face and aw-shucks demeanor

If this were paint it’d be asymptotic, red.

Too many toasties cut in quarters for Subway. Too many indemnity claims at Allstate.

If you’re wanting to write a poem that will appeal to the largest possible amount of people, you really can’t go wrong writing a poem about water.

we feel safe when we taste one another and we feel safest when our mouths are numb

  believing in nothing listening to jazz cooking purple sprouting rituals evoking somelike the aspirations of the... more

please alert The

Paris Review that this wrenching November

is truly the cruelest month of all.

the drugs didn’t wear off,
the guy she wants to get in bed
                                doesn’t really care.

when she was 6 she’d never touch cigarettes,
                                but drugs made her slip

washing the wound
in beer and poetry

Yellow 1 & 2 I will no longer keep you; I will remember you yellow you have a beautiful yellow ache, a scarf made of heavy... more