Every orgasm I am not having is a poem in process.

The body rotates its symbols / like a stereoscope

I’m flinging sparks at a desk 
in the cold cell of civilization’s midnight 
 

I'm sick...

I am torn with longing for many unnameable things.

there was nothing special in the Library of Alexandria

It does not make any noise but it works.

I fucked his heart, ruined the fitted sheets,
flamingos left erect in a pool of afternoons

other byproducts are produced
sticky sweat, the stink of loneliness

But there's no blood
It's all gone, I'm dry

Do you ever get mad
and want to 
hit something?

a howl of anguish and a bolt from the, a bruise, and yes, even lurid strangulation on the— 

why it’s positively gothic darling, really!

Why can’t time be both? History repeating 

Itself but making progress too?

Now there is a skeleton outside my window. And skeletons on all the dating app profiles.

This marriage project
What a blast

The face in my mirror keeps getting older –
Into the face of the man who beat me

Sometimes they say, You can’t really teach someone to write a poem, in which case you might answer, Well,
not you.

Our lovemaking is a demilitarized zone.

i don’t think there will be booze
for sale, the style writer says, 
because it’s a synagogue

in the midst of a historic crisis, i ride my bike to the river

There’s something unbearably endearing
about Pepto-Bismol in its retro European
packaging

I vomited
up a prophecy in a dive bar,
inhaling hot dogs.

Drainage stains. Snow turns to shivering rain. The rear facing concrete walls.

waylon in the kitchen
pancakes
the pain of a tattoo gun on ribs 

“you’re bad at finishing beverages that aren’t alcoholic,” you told me