Blood Orange

His face is a fistful of oranges. I enter           an apostrophe where the curve of his nose should be – a swarm of flies from the blood pooling in his cupids bow, a hive of bees stealing glances from his pelvis, Why are you so honey? I ask him as if…

Six Stories

Your lung collapsed outside on the balcony, eleven cigarettes in seventeen hours – the mirrored bathroom that gave you anxiety had to be concealed by duct tape stolen from the sex bag of operatic role-play we carry with us to every hotel. You couldn’t look at your nose anymore, or feet     all deliberate…

Overcoming Writer’s Block

As most writers can tell you, inspiration is fleeting. Many of us go through intervals where our creative inspirations weave in and out – which can leave you feeling like you aren’t a true artist all because you can’t create on demand – which is total bullshit. In my opinion, there isn’t really a measure…

If a Woman Wants to Vanish

If a woman wants to vanish                   she can Abolish the fetish of skin, to skin, to skin Contact                dematerialize a softened puff That sterilizes her lips, fingernails spreading fig &                  …

Alive, Lie, Legend

Your death is louder All hail the helling of bells, barrage of spinster Spiking coffee with morphine, and no one Can hear it  – your death is louder – like lozenge, Louder like bullshit-banter-baculum-brat-buccina, Louder like sun, louder like you have been fawning For breeding, like Tiny Dancer, louder like gorging on Irish spring soap,…

The Orwells

I watch how you are made. sedated to The Orwells slurring syllables In a bluesy baritone, the inflamed postules of your dry mouth are imbedded with the nucleus or my grainy elbows on which you gnaw in reflex                      like a dog in heat, like aswelling spatial star engulfed in oxygen, the way you kiss is…

He’s my Collar

What is this secret persona that you sing about?  The garbage kitchen you squall in, old songs you regurgitate  for microphones and strangers, the name given to you and  the way you miss the inflection of my voice when I say it incorrectly, Not a single person knows you the way that I do,  and…

Mari

Mari does not know what a painting does but dissolves into your head until you are seeing you seeing you tongue palette knife, the lovers – & arms she orchestrated – & reversed, rather be red with rain – & thrown into boiling earth not condemning competency to earshot odd oblong geriatric artificial afro bike…

Some Loves

It is not for me to coddle what is left of this raging, wild hope some loves turn tricks – some loves swallow you like pills and nestle the flush in your cheeks like pillows – some loves disaster love, purposely – some loves pause with anxiety that leads to adultery and the return of…

Franišek Kupka

I cracked back my jaw to feign an old life and it sounded like you old man eucalyptus, myth – František Kupka in a fog somewhere between Venice Beach and Notting Hill just outside of Crazy Horse between dry pines and consequential fire, maybe the skeltons of rainier cherries have tracked you with temper and…