Enough of osseous and chickadee and sunflower and snowshoes, maple and seeds, samara and shoot, enough chiaroscuro, enough of thus and prophecy and the stoic farmer and faith and our father and 'tis of thee, enough of bosom and bud, skin and god not forgetting and star bodies and frozen birds, enough of the will to go on and not go on or how a certain light does a certain thing, enough of the…
her grandmother called her from the playground “yes, ma’am” “i want chu to learn how to make rolls” said the old woman proudly but the little girl didn’t want to learn how because she knew even if she couldn’t say it that that would mean when the old one died she would be less dependent on her spirit so she said “i don’t want to know how to make no rolls” with her lips poked out and the old woman…
Sometimes I text my friends I’m crying and they reply lol . It’s not their fault. My lack of tact and legibility is divined. On Wednesday I resolve to be friendlier with myself, more encouraging. Thursday I call myself a stupid cunt before breakfast. It’s almost funny how much I’m actually crying. It’s kind of funny how I know exactly what Gordon Ramsay is like when his kids don’t clean their…
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do. Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet Stand before a glass and tie my tie. Vine leaves tap my window, Dew-drops sing to the garden…
Some days—dishes piled in the sink, books littering the coffee table— are harder than others. Today, my head is packed with cockroaches, dizziness and everywhere it hurts. Venom in the jaw, behind the eyes, between the blades. Still, the dog is snoring on my right, the cat, on my left. Outside, all those redbuds are just getting good. I tell a friend, The body is so body. And she nods. I used to…
Some days show no mercy to our breath, but our lungs have not called in sick one single day, instead we hired a canary to warn us when we forget to love, if we counted every beat our hearts skipped, their number would exceed all the men who fought in Troy, although we never hid inside a wooden horse, and our gasps are becoming fond memories.
Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude; How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you? All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me. I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth. Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for…