My Government

Peripheral issues,

like where to raise fireflies,

consume my government.

My government,

not yours.

I don’t share,

And my whole bureaucracy is off their meds, anyways.

Stop staring at my nudity.

You aren’t supposed to be here.


Look up water.

See what books,

so fearful of the subject,

refuse to stay.

Flowers gasp to stay afloat.

His desires spirit him away.

His desire to finger the piano,


with or without her face.

The touch of her mind on the water

regal red.

Life and I do not care who we have.

He is

crunched afterbirth.


She needs sour apple vodka mixed with a tart schnapps.

On her way in the nonchalant dark her dignity escaped her.

At the counter a man wonders where fugitive dignity hides.

She leaves holding black bags,

tries not to notice that even with 6 clanging bags of bottles

her load is lighter than it was.

The Gray Sea is a Dancer and a Whore

The residue of angels drapes

like fine linen

over our hands

our language

our thighs.

Death and I do not care what time it is.

He is a delinquent

I am night’s dilettante.

A lighthouse is afraid.

The gray sea is a dancer and a whore.

Stop feeding the birds along

the craggy shore your dinner.

They are waiting for you.


He casts his net among the rocks.

Broken jaws chatter beneath the water.

Two towns over he is a baby licking

his mother’s paintings.

Today he is a glass hunter

All shine and no stick.

Pharmacological Fog

Recapturing yourself will be easy.

White still in the bedroom,

structure from private, necessary snow.

dreaming of silence.

Your mind is a playground of artillery.


Capturing the sense of yourself will be hard,

Lost 2 feet tall in a field of chaff.

The women have needles and no yarn.

A man sits toward the curdling sun,

his face a mouth.


Sound your siren song

A gentle offering of wisteria wishes

and sulking letters.

Give her a sonorous rope to tie round her wrist

a little balloon bobbing desperately toward mass.



Eleven mirrors watch videos of sky.

Clouds breed above the enemy.

What sleeps inside my teeth

that my hunger has become so fragile?

My face is a tapestry unfinished.

Below the town a garden planted by boys

grows velvet tumbleweed.


A forbidden food is silly

but demonic and understandable

on a Tuesday when you clock in

(If people can turn clock into a verb for such

nefarious purposes, they need to stay away from my sofa and window.)

and you feel five feet wide and are at least 1.

Chocolate bars are exotic and exciting. Do not listen to

the pizza. He will charm you out of your 2s and into 10s.

Eat your salad.

It wants to die,

is dying,

wants you to follow along.

Ignore the demeaning soda. It hates you.

Your teeth whither.

Why are all the women in bigger sizes so much smaller than you?

Your bones shrink at the reproach.