You are here


Series of Untitled Poems

dear caroline,


whenever we walk

near a cemetery my stomach falls backward and

I am still blinking.

it is so typical to be tortured

by people coming in & out of other countries.




dear caroline,


you do not want to understand the machine

in wyoming. she always said to leave your fingers

alone—that they will take care of themselves. we can do our own dishes, and peel our

Life in the Jet Wash

Blade sharpened sickle sitting starkly on

grey-brown kicker with profligate foot-

licker demurely dancing circles around

the carpet, carpenterman just come for

clean up. Fully loaded umpires now closely

watching through his every move, not

quite what he expected, this mad house,

this lead huntsman’s pissing yard, measure

the length, the width and the time it takes

to get there and I swear from the far end


This is the sound

of you, of a

slump bell ringing


a sign of

neighborliness, of green

foam returning

to the sea.


your eyes knot

with discretion: they are

the smallest kind

of russet shell


an oscillated blue.

on doubting your existence

i’d’ve grown several beards

by now, taken the trimmings

and’ve made a sweater that you’d’ve worn

and you’d’ve rolled around in my masculinity

shaking-orgasmic with all the wonders my body can provide.


after a bloody t-bone and a glass of chablis

you’d’ve confessed your undying love

to me. to which i’d’ve crossed-arm

distant, callous

never’ve indulged in the comfort of counterfactuals

pre-set, knowable,

pretend we’re free



pretend we’re free. let me

untaint silver, repaint fame in

merciless contours


break undercut truisms,

entreat mental tribalism—

sectors compete, corrode,

treasures untie dopamine

knots. regale us with

blood foliage, lease

posture. neurons flutter.

memories unwind, collared

chimps rearrange daft

chants, unlend intimacy.


we’ll ask untruth to unravel,


convinced when I landed

you the old failures would be tarnished

frames at the back of a museum

of amber intent, I let the sun

wrinkle my folds into two

syllable outpourings.


where before I exhumed

quilts one thread at a time,

plucked sweaty dandelions,

we are scarf flesh now (it’s not

for twills like us to know whose

neck we warm)

how I select is

how I select is, I wait for the smile at the edge of the bridge to make itself female and I divide the time her whites tease teach me into a ball of lint by the air bulge short glued to my throat. the rigor of the couch decides for both of us whose pocket albums remind more of horseshoes than cartoons. like the crunching sound you made at my suggestion, the wrinkle we sipped at long into this smug parade of an evening is a more persuasive lip than either scotch or sativa.


Sassafras stood one hand on hip and snap chewed bubblegum. Pop pop. She boiled water for grits and then made coffee instead. Poured whiskey wetly in glug glug. No grits. Just coffee. Whiskey. To the slammed screen door she turned and yelled. Don’t slam that door! Wove a wooden spoon near small trousered behinds. Pop pop. Applied lipstick in the shiny chrome ovenlight. Red red. Smack. Don’t tell your daddy I’m goin’ out. Don’t do it. Pop pop.


Spinning the thread out of nothing. Out of the air and a few hairs. Light from the sun filtering down through the fibers from every corner of the sky stumped against the flat shadow of her pinched fingers. She glances up with sheltered eyes at the red plateau falling away against the blue sky. The grained dust closing in around silver green rocks and scrub desert plants scattered about here and over there accidentally rooted.

Los Angeles/Poem for Jack Onorato

I write this for you, Los Angeles, I write this for you, Los Angeles, you’re the kind that I put out my eyes in a airport restroom, for permission there is the long alleyway walk, a family came out of you and crawled across my plains and I cut myself up with oceans but you still set up your restaurant a four-hour busride away, for you Los Angeles, if you have rivers they sleep for me, I sleep at the bottom of them, for you Los Angeles is the peyote and the long, firm mattress, all the little