Yesterday I wrote to a judge
on the behalf of an old friend
who has done the unthinkable.
“Sitting where you are,
Your Honor,
you could not possibly know
the boy”—the
man,
the

What do you call it when
the desire of an “I
told you so!” stales
to nothingness.
Silence. Everybody
is invincible



“30 years.” the voice came through
the collect call from County.
“They gave me thirty, thanks
for nothing,” said the
the
murderer.

But now there’s nothing for you,
but time and prison wine.

It truly is the biggest
     gift in the world
to look at yourself
     in the mirror
and recognize
whoever you
     may be
looking
at.

Drumkits on the desk,
next to the mirror plate and the advil.
Momma, I'm just tryna do my best,
I been taking things just to keep
my hands still.
You already know.

a smile so smug
you need to cover your mouth.

A woman places an add
on a merchant website,
“full wardrobe for sale:
men’s worn clothes XL,
an engagement ring,
cash only—leaving
tomorrow.”

Three words—eight words, we
slay with hate words or
lay with some plain jane,
without a
care for her name while she's
dressed as a french maid,
waiting for a safe word.

We fake words, like when
we write our papers, or when
reach for chasers, just hiding
cracks behind our blazers.

Let's be earnest.
I mean, let's just burn it—to the roach,
and we'll all toast, pretending like
we've earned it.
Earnest.
Here's to the all the things
we love the most:
here's to blowing smoke and
to doing enough coke to let our
noses bleed. Let's just scream
"**** the masses!" See,
we'll be back, like vapor from the ashes.
Let's be earnest, we
live life, we live it
to the fastest. Clinking
champagne glasses until life
just puff puff
passes.

A million sandlewood candles from
the quick checkout at Sephora
could not mask what we have
done here. Not all the *****
in the world could seize my
dripping mind, which always
seems to pour down the
drain for you and your
stupid ignorant
wild and lewd
cruel and deliberate
enchanting, invigorating—
I sit behind you in math
class and you hold
his hand.
He met me at East 79th
and fifth,
“I think she’s cheating,” he says.
“What a *****.” I say, shaking my head.

Life can be symbolized in the
impossibility of chugging  
champagne from the bottle,
in the half-great, half-horrible scent
of cheap cologne. Life feels like
leaving 3am messages on your
ex’s home phone.

I feel the most alive in warm summer rain,

like when we were lining up jobs, stanzas

and *******.

Life is a small *******
with a Napoleon Complex.
Life is that one lover that takes things out
of context.
         "I am who I am, *******!"
Life is the fact that people can’t buy
Daraprim for what what the price is.
Life is ISIS,
who could ****
hundreds of thousands to
appease a God who
cannot hear them. Life
makes you scream with fury
until you’re purring with calm.
Sputtering like an engine,

until life is gone.

Because there’s something in me
that rattles at my ribs like a birdcage.
For my brother, for former lovers,
and many others.
To remember with a smile what we
usually do with tears.
In an attempt to say the things
we cannot say.
Poetry smells like
burning sage, feels
like grainy leather and
sounds like Mon Coer Est Rouge  in your
friend’s
old, beat-up chevy.
But it feels so right,
it feels like that perfect, eye-rolling
stretch after a long day.
And it has been a long day.