Ways Not to Use the Internet, #1

•July 26, 2014 • Leave a Comment

- re: buffering videos

throw a tortoise shell at your screen
to shame your connection. try hard
because you’ve never succeeded.
you are a little kid, kicking in the ocean,
calling out to someone, anyone really.
these creeping seconds like falling
glass, like drowning. a throat full of knots.
accept that you screamed your way through
the end, “this isn’t happening. please.”

eulogy for titan, in early spring

•May 11, 2014 • Leave a Comment

since childhood, birds have called me
bastard. ruiner. I have written stories
where I crush them, stab them, worship
the carnage. “no love lost” would be a lie,

here. today, in the afternoon’s quiet
fading, I came in from the ruthless heat.
the kind that sticks to you like a cough
or like the guilt of murdering someone
in a daydream, with a hammer, with a smile.

heading out to my fire escape to drink,
I remembered the first time my father lied:
“you can’t play outside. our world
blossoms like a firebomb, full
of lonely & skeletal animals
everywhere, waiting to steal you.”

I opened the door, was nervous, & lost
every bit of my voice. all I could see
beneath me, your distorted outline —
barely hidden by the shield that had failed you.

your eyes were easy to spot: black droplets
in a mess of pink & light blue, pieces of hell
stolen from the pit itself. you were a gift
someone just forgot to open. your heart,
a puzzle I would have to eat whole
to solve. would have to smother

to save the day.
here I am now, writing
how I buried you. yes,
how I feared the blood
to be my own.

greyshot

•February 10, 2014 • Leave a Comment

for months now, new york’s been nothing
more than trash.  it’s the aftermath of a party.
nothing is where it should be.  what little is,
no one can recognize or name.  the people
lying in piles of dust, the things they lost
early on, never to be found again.  oh,
but the wait.  the fall.  the fever in skyscrapers.
today, I left home for the first time since
it all happened.  I found Central Park,
I think.  I couldn’t breathe.  it was deserted.
all broken this & heartache or memory that.
the rubble on the ground, ugly.  the arch, gone.
I remembered my mom’s high school anguish —
the night she walked into her attic & found a noose,
cut down.  — & you weren’t anywhere I could see.

sticks & stones

•January 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

my whole town calls you a summer
goddess.  please, mock everyone I worship,
make yourself a nest in my blood.

— the reigning thundercloud
the fortune in saying goodbye
the thousand daisies on main street —

oh, honey, we were always
fate.  hammers & gossamer
veils, flung from on high.

Atooishinjuu

•January 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

on your first date he gasped, kissing your jaw,
“at night, the bay could move anyone.”

the rain came abruptly, viciously,
& beat you over the shoulders to show off

how the ripples in the water could hum
the anxious tune you wrote for your vows

in perfect time, glass stem delicate & tranquil.
no one could think straight — “wait for the waltz,

hold your breath.” the bridge shed its skin.
you watched him make a home in the deep.

LIPARA

•October 22, 2013 • Leave a Comment

a woman hunted you in a dream
once.  time stopped obeying its own rules.
you were too fast for her bullets but not her
eyes, made of crystal & apple seeds.
she became an altar & you, a wound.
you say you don’t photograph well;
no one cares.  you bleed out, quietly.
the tradition of worship after sunset.
late fall.  a desperate season of hiding
from the light.  deep in your chest,
there is an ageless buck eating dirt.
somewhere in the woods outside town,
you find that deserted grove.  summer’s first kiss.
all the frantic bitterness in knowing
it wasn’t yours.  how it all glimmers,
sprawled out in the tired moonlight.

STARSPAWN

•October 14, 2013 • Leave a Comment

you don’t care about constellations,
or natural disasters.  you didn’t see
all those jet planes crashing tonight;
too wrapped up in some sick hand
to see how everyone hates their hometown.
get it through your head, you little fuck.
your knife’s faded & your party’s not on fire.
you’re not special in this sick cult.
when it rains, your house is cold
just like all the others.  bet on it.

 
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