most enlightened woman in all of New York

Recently, I thought I solved the riddle "the sound of one hand clapping" while observing an amputee. I had always thought that the sound of one hand clapping had something to do with redemptive salvation.

But, the thing about Buddhist rosary beads is that you don’t have to have mantras–

you can just play with them. 

example of me listening to you

sorry

sorry

jackhammering said simply by existing

street bird on a branch

simply being 

themself

you said you 

wanted conversations 

to feel good, interactive, you know

The word interactive

made me think of being online

of websites

well– 

designed 

intuitive & easy 

on our eyes

two websites 

talking to each other

communicating better

than the people 

who made them

we perceived 

from websites

revelation

as good as 

logistics 

are calamity 

if only I could

allow myself to be

the advent

of a small culture 

a secret

bequeathed into cuts 

of our trousers

the novel

yet soft

feminine 

idea

to be as young 

as I claim 

to be 

& the nameless bird 

sits

still 

on the branch

while you keep talking 

to me like you always do

& I'm stuck on semantics 

for its sake alone 

can’t give up 

a choice word

even if it could kill 

us both 

sorry

sorry

this conversation 

we just had you

know, I just want you

to know that 

I appreciate it

seeing what happens is seeing change 

manufactured violence.

referring to certain people as the neighborhood 

banded opal

in the month of June 

he claims to not understand negative space

soft psoriasis         we lay down in the lightest stretch of sun

do you remember the riots 

In the driveway of a Dollar General

i think of all the people that have stepped on this driveway 

before me                feeling outlines of their bodies

so precise that it feels like walking through sand

surprising yet expected feeling          sinking

on the scattered bodies         we are scattered here today

with one dollar

speaking of absence    there is a register

that empties when i speak

while i hope 

for more works about flowers    

this isn't one of them

implicated myself through distance from an event–

I think some call holding ideas at arm’s length

an avoidant attachment style, yet

poetry must incessantly scrape at inequity

or find the function of bipedalism 

enacting it myself 

except insofar as i am a supposed to

rise towards what forms

Untitled 

“I have not and never did have any motive of poetry / But to achieve clarity.” – George Oppen 

wake up during a mid-sleep

most nights I do wake  

pant & pang countenance

indivisibilities prophetic dream

do tell do tell 

tell you how to reenter 

a dream again 

its sequential phrases 

are loosed from their moorings

back into knotted nothing 

not a single night 

can pause 

pointed index finger 

do tell do tell, yours 

no realer truth

then any matter, who cares 

how poised metal reflects onto 

ghost ships schlepping stone cold rubble

left edge of a cloud 

moving across 

a pale fixture

& nothing tears us from this rock

power knuckles

width of now raw 

pink-oranged hued 

usually buckled gray accented bluish

I said, to not look at the image in a painting 

he said, rather look at the painting as an image 

he said 

Don’t fuck with me 

Love makes thinking dark 

Cursors always lead back 

To the window   panes  we cannot ignore

A frame    see curtains     screen 

know what is set      behind them 

It’s our reflections   glean

Twilit    sodden    dispensable garden 

Variety details      fielding 

In addition to finding yourself 

Look       at ways you can hold    still

Abusing a view   in recalling its trees

Lessons in horseshoe mirrors 

Realize what you   mean

to me    what meant    the most

Still    forms   frightened heart   eases the grasses

While lying   in this house   aids a memory