February 10, 2018
I dream of battlefields
in the pitch black of night
where only gunfire serves as the light
If I had a family
surely I would long for home
I am the dancer
I am the finicky eater
I am the prisoner of war
All I know of you is from
secondhand stories and photographs
but I bear your name and so I live
vicariously through you
February 8, 2018
I know what you tell the soil but it’s all made up
I felt you turning in my belly
i felt you twitching in my pussy
Is it possible to keep a live baby in my body
Is it wrong to keep a baby alive from my body
I know what I tell the moon but it’s all made up
milk doesn’t grow on trees but i could still feed you
i expect that me and a 50 year old man in thick jeans work boots and a meal from the gas station feel the same way in our hearts
except his meal is still defrosting and he has slush on his boots
Have you ever felt a keyboard that was thinner than a sheet
Have you ever been inside a cave so deep you saw where the caveman sleeps?
September 21, 2017
Notes on Frequenting Trapdoors
We burn through water like it’s blood, so say goodbye to your familial ties.
I will gut your rotisserie chicken from inside you with a double edged costco card.
Best you don’t get too complacent in your jissom tinged opiatic drawers;
curtsy cute like and sit in shit.
Impending orgasmic tickles are a falsehood;
September 7, 2017
this poem was not about you but then suddenly it was about you
nothing to hold
kill kill kill
lawn chairs in the living room make me
my flame for everything
but sleeplessness feels fine!
opiatic and thin
I want nothing but dustless surfaces
to trace in the afternoons
when the sun is falling down through the stairwell
did you know?