Feb 20


Every day I fall upward into a sky of bleach. The clouds do nothing to slow my inertia; even their sweat is wicked away by the speed of my velocity. My eyes remain open against the wind, albeit unwillingly - I took a vegetable peeler to them long ago to make sure I wouldn't miss a thing. Nonetheless I can never seem to fix them now upon the promised omnipotences of those out here in the deep, sucking me through their soular systems like vacuumed fire.

(Is evaporation at play in this potent luminescence? Was Houdini our savior all along?)

At parties I stick my face in buckets of dry ice to dim the floodlights and encourage the blurred effect of condensation on my glasses, even as Pluto passes gas in my direction. I am snowblind, no shades in sight. The glow of planetary serotonin ripples over my derma, beckoning with quick solipsistic kip-ups for riskless reward, but the appeal is fading.
Sep 04


"I'd follow you to the ends of the world," I used to say, as cliché and laughable as the next seismic prophet. But, too, I'd ask myself, Have we already reached the edge? Are we peering over? Is now the time to tie a rope around my ankles, just in case? Humus would squelch like hummus into the pads of my feet, a breathable, tactile quenching, yet unsteady beneath me and susceptible to the shifts of china plates.

"That's alright," I began to say instead. "I love you roundly then, overlapping, repeating, growing in haphazard divots and bulges – a rubber band ball with a tight, bunched, squiggly nucleus."
Aug 06


Jun 13

Life's Real...

Jun 05



I'm find myself scraping off the dust-pink shellac warping my fingernails. A half-life has come to pass; I'm not sure whose. 

By the end of last week I'd sanded straight through a three-pack of emery boards from an old December stocking and am now left with the dull edge of dollar store clippers. The ruddy scabs on my finger-creases still come from a nervous eczema itch when I choose to look closer. I do not.

Instead I let the chips fall where they may. Without sight I sense my DNA settle into the flannel of my bedsheets. Keratin and rose polish snowflakes - a melancholy glitter. There is no sparkle to catch the lamplight. I realize now that I do not know the backs of my hands any better than I know the calluses on the bottom of my own feet. 

At least on my toes, I remind myself, I can still picture the grass stains of summer. The nail beds there bleed too, but not as much.

I am violent, but I am vindicated.
Mar 06

Growing Corn

“To grow your own corn you must make sacrifices,” they tell me, but I sneak into my neighbor’s yard with a trowel anyway.

I loosen the edges of a round plot like a spatula to a pancake, roll it up, and drag it over the picket fence to my barrenness (they won’t even know it’s missing). 

When the Almanac dictates my time to plant I take the seeds from my apron pocket and rub my bruised lips against them. One by one I release them into their holes, exhaling.
To the wind I ask, Is that enough? 

Each sunrise I leap out of bed to inspect the dirt with a magnifying glass, on the lookout for sprouts even before I piss. In the soft dawn light I water them, read to them, running my fingers through the peach fuzz grass. 

But they were right all along. In the end I grow impatient; I submit.