(03) on having your stomach morph into a freefalling elevator

Photo 27-3-14 2 06 49 pm

(from the beginning
and here on out,
everything you do
will be used against you.
and somehow

I’m the Pharisee.)

text message:
I just got Marylyn the feminazi
to cook for me and tie her hair
in a French twist. Hypocrite.

A moment of silence
for all the people we have wanted
so desperately to like.

text message:
meanwhile in Marylyn’s world
[a screenshot of your
confidentiality breaching

like a dying whale]

meanwhile in Marylyn’s world,
it is clouded with hurricane you.
meanwhile the people
shield their eyes at the sky
and wonder at a
two-faced god.


(02) [redacted]

for those whom legacy is important.

life on mars

how does one make art about
someone you weren’t supposed
to do?

gentle [redacted]. thoughtful,
caring [redacted]. making-up-for-
past-crimes [redacted]. you-know-
who-I’m-talking-about [redacted].

[redacted], you are
a slew of subtle sensory assailants.
sweet-smelling officewear. pants
far too big for your skin-and-bone stilts.

you are:

a study in cheekbone angles and lynx
deodorant; a thesis on fingertip

your solar plexus made of stone
your stonewalled emotions made of

your glasshouse guilt the first one
rushing to throw stones at itself.

an awkward arm slung around my shoulder,
you were:

the ultimate goodboy fling,
thrown from down under
like a double-edged boomerang.
not underhand throw but undercontinent.

your good nature
(even your kisses polite strokes)
as reserved as someone benched
because they will not hit even a ball

at odds with your ambition. you are
a video frame caught between two stills,

the [redacted] you are
and the [redacted] you want to be.
your character wisping between scenes.

[redacted], I tried
to defile a nice boy

but thing is I have no upper body strength
to throw you for a loop.
the joke is I overbalanced and fell

for your willingness to believe.

the joke is I sought to break
the bro code—

set out to score
but so much more
was achieved.


(01) the first of April – fool.


on loving people who exhale death and mellowness as recreation

like kissing santa
you, filled with the taste of soot,
lowering yourself down my chimney,
covered in ash, unlikely phoenix,
your only gift the taste of teeth and tongue.

I told you you were a drama queen.
being with you is at once
dramatic and asthmatic.
you are a constant fog machine.
I feel like I should be wearing a cape,
or eyeliner as heavy
as my limbs.

they lied. it doesn’t make everything funnier
and I have deeper thoughts at three a.m.
when I’m reading Infinite Jest.
your herbal remedies your snakegrass wonders
are all sawdust in engines destined
to make you forget
that time itself is burning.
molasses in the grand scheme of things.

be careful–
when you date a smoker
everything turns to metaphors
of rasping inhalations and

gasping revelations:
the first being
the unpleasant discovery that
closing one’s eyes to the world
only makes it spin harder.