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

Fucking Bruce was what I lived for,
That and my writing
That and these fucking poems

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

You must stop dating
physicists, that sere barnacling across
the cold, leeward faces of rocks.

writing fiction in which people google things,
suffering in a very abstract way
trying very hard to shut the fuck up & failing

I ask him if the smoke was from the engine fires
or the buildings collapsing — or both
of course it was both 
We pass Emily Ratajkowski and I try to run back to get a look at her face

The other thing Belle did
Was burn three holes in my thigh
With her cigarette
Revenge for the chaos I’d caused

Mouth like the

moon. Until death,

be excited. Déjà vu

you’ve never had.

I, I, I, I, the angel speaks herself

I finger a ring of keys and wonder what doors they might unlock.

There I was on Clement Street in the morning, trying to grow another body.

It’s a sin,
to desire different architecture, I’m told

in a cellar not far from here, wine waits years to peak
before a bottle is cracked open only to empty
a bruise.

Burying me # alive 
in training pants and # rags is my son’s 
# gift of sorts

In the low light of dawn, I master—
I conquered
my body and led it / as a slave.

I’m thinking of your fallow tongue,
the taste of what you did and didn’t say.

Southward

You are the big blue sky
I never thought you would have
The moment when you turn your head over
So the water freezes
So the ginkgo falls
So the wall full of photos is also pale
And

just looked outside
to see what’s going on
whatever         it

is thursday
precious, beautiful
whatever as ever

and i can’t
pry my hand
off the windowsill

i’m driving the future
it’s a

Waxing Phase

Sparrow day
draining to red

red wall of night
night a voice

caught within the throat
the throat a tunnel

a blackened river
a wing bending

a moonrise

Night

You had one of those
shag haircuts that all lesbians
in Brooklyn have we sipped
your favorite pink drink

From champagne flutes as the
sun bled crimson and the air
crisped between us you’ve

Hiring Bodyman

This city hates me

I get so tired
of waiting

for you
I groom myself

Now all I have to do
is show up at your door

& you’ll call me sweetheart
forever

I hate

that was the year that all the carnivals came to town. sounds like a fake small town thing, but when you live in a small town, all the things that happen are fake small town things, except they’re

I'm Not

Losing / floundering
ignoring / coasting
retreating/ rethinking
stalling / shrinking

I am settling my debts
clearing the inventory
and wiring the electric
to be seen in my own