top of page


we sit crosslegged in language 

on the Persian carpet I got you last 

time it stormed. Time gathers over our heads.

and Life 

is over there, 

behind the rolls of 16mm 

short I made last July 

sitting on a tower of spine-broken 

novels. I pin thank-you cards 

with stranger children smiling

so I remember how to move my lips. I did forget

how to make my head spin, so that day

with a smirk you taught me. The long-play 

is the soundtrack of our bedroom. 

I plant avocado pits, hoping

magic beans, and maybe, I, sprout wings.

buried deep inside the silken fabric 

of sanity, I pull apart the stars of cross 

lovers. my morning is fluttering of ravens

on my window, my downstairs an unavoidable increase  

in pretentious “decaf soy double espresso” orders. we wish 

we were Hercules, but when we cut their heads 

two new ones sprout. and February 

makes me shiver much less 

than hypodermics or women’s killings,

yet my blade is useless against lightning.

yesterday I watched people’s heads explode

in a tv show. we laughed, quite content.

bottom of page