On 14 September 1990, Ken Griffey Sr. hit a home run, and Ken Griffey Jr., the very next batter, also hit a home run, making them the only father–son combo in Major League Baseball history to hit

I learned about @DidMetsLose2Day because someone I followed retweeted a post.

Tommy “Teebs” Pico was a Queer/Art/Mentors inaugural fellow, 2013 Lambda Literary fellow in poetry, and has poems in BOMB, Guernica, and [PANK]. Originally from the Viejas Indian reservation of the Kumeyaay nation, he now lives in Brooklyn and curates the reading series Poets With Attitude (PWA) with Morgan Parker. @heyteebs

The birds lift their blue feet in a slow and deliberate seduction. 

Gravity bends light. Gravitational attraction between masses results in a warping of space and time.

What is a Z

Eye-phones, Cell-phones, and maybe Pie-phones

We were homeless. We stole blankets, sheets. We took provisions. We carried our houses inside us.

Seinfeld near tits is an innovative sight. A billionaire can only be cropped next to libidinous events with CGI. It appears comedians struggle to retrieve their teeth back from fame. 

Excerpt from the novel, Squish.

The nails on my pinky toes are just nubbins, really — sort of shapeless blobs of keratin that grow in a little pit at the end of each toe.

These Austrian cows
lying down vaguely chewing
grass what are they think

We tried training the Doberman abandoned a yard down with chemically flattened ham

But I have a million lights
I have two million actually
A whole billboard

I think Hemingway killed the subordinate clause because it looked at him slantward from the shelled nobility of an era that deserved Victorianism.

The boy is sprawled across the woman’s bed . . . 

Every day after your aunt points a 9mm Smith and Wesson at your head, you think about holding one in your hands. You need to feel that weight. 

She wasn’t a real pretty girl, but it was Valentine’s and a Saturday night and we had booze.

There were reports of a vagrant living in a bathhouse.

I don’t know if my husband and I are on the way to church or a hangover.

The bass line to “If I Was Your Girlfriend” curled into a smaller ball and pulled the thin blanket in tighter.

Tough to have a face / in the late weather of Empire.

We were in Hungary to see his grave, which I did not spit on, and I’m proud of myself for that.   

The night we part, not knowing when we will see each other next, we go out walking beneath a swollen, but waning, moon.

We are going to die still falling // for crap about berries, a glass of red wine. It could be worse.  We’re not suicidal, / smack fiends, Swazi.

At night, when everyone's gone, the dark looks like a scatter of tiny bullet holes above her desk in the shape of a heart.

Excise it.  Use a cheese wire . . .