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automatic writing at mango mike's
and then i am left,
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at the upmarket stretch of sand
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straddling this most unremarkable state,
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q
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La Marzocco Lionhead
I.
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something within me,
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maybe its my amigdala,
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misses the oven-turned-gentrified clot,
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that
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cardinal
sounds of the engorged worm’s lumbering steps,
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they pierce not so stinging as the golden glow of o
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a Crane flies (the beautiful monolith No. 1)
We walk to it in silence, passing over earthen layers of leaf and twig, never once touching dirt en
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( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
the marble people stare not at you,
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behind you, not at anyone in particular.
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hunched, and clutch
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soho, the lines
I.
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my sleeping is condensed this spring
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such that two or three hours
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at most will suffice for
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bd
buddy didn’t tell me buddy was a two-spirit.
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buddy rode into town,
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blonde-horsed and golden god,
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Novina
When I was born,
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Mother named me “Novina,”
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and I was to be both
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the prayer and the answer.
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I
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fisherman's wife
I stand,
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tender and wild
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at the water's edge.
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I'm told,
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as waves punch my knees,
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that it's
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No. 12
and then we were us,
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with ten fingers,
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equal toes, two kidneys
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and our souls,
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so blessed and
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