You imagine you’re a tipping point wrapped in a synthetic summer dress.

None of us have those cats who go
viral meowing Springsteen songs...

Night comes in a slow bloom of abandon.

Have you ever seen a rich person?
It's not like that movie about rich people–

Then there’s the Schnabel:
Some colors and Adieu...

This poem is about death and, to some extent, life.

Anyone who loves Tim loves him for the same reason.
He hit one home run. "Did you ever hit one?"
He'll ask, as the day begins to wash over his face
and he leans back to stare at the baseball

            after A.E. Stallings

That his fingernails are immaculate, shaped
into thin arches of moon. That he files them
in the locker room before games, between innings in the

Except for the first single-celled organism
preposterously long ago, firecracker snapped
from a vast nothing, the earth is mulch & rot.

If I were a room,
I would be transparent.

Happy Birthday   

You push your bike
on the worn pathway
into the bushes.
You enter my apartment
with chocolate cake
and colorful birthday hats. 
You put one on my head
and

Self-portrait as fogged up car. / Self-portrait as Home Depot // parking lot at 3 AM, no cars, / no people. Self-portrait with // grocery cart with someone else’s / left behind list.

Looking for the right angle

He poo-poo’s my relationship to nature, even when I tell him about touching the dead goat.

*

An intimacy that can hold the world?
An intimacy that

It’s the new plan, Shooter.  Poetry for broken systems.  Insurance rider attached. 

Fishhooks the size of anchors have started falling from the sky. It’s happening two or three times a week...

She can pack what remains of the pancreas like a Tetris pro. But at night she dreams of Lily.

flowering and husking in the cornfield. Blooming / and ripping ourselves open. Surprising even our kin.

When talking dirty, be sure to use action words and nouns that cause pictures inside people’s heads. End with an image and don't explain. 

You tell Jeff Bridges you fear
your dying breath will be just like
the whimper you make when trying
to remove glitter polish from your
toenails. He sets his guitar down on
the fur

tell me, what are we looking for, don’t die right now

Because sharks mate / by just passing for a moment / before separating forever and / because his dog died...

its dreams are a whetstone // it sharpens itself all night long.

At a certain point, / no sex becomes a little Branch Davidian

Kathy Acker was sick of shaving her legs.  Every time she shaved them she cut herself.  It didn’t matter if the blade was dull or sharp.  Inevitably the blade would steal pieces of her knee. 

DREAM

Our legs are stilts. Beyond our ankles
are the blunt ends of crutches. Our feet
are missing. But our hands are fine,
Boy says. There’s a rope suspended
between our bodies. Our