i have interviews;
plastic plants are placed squarely throughout stale spaces
the real plants are on desks and on window sills,
mainly private offices
where women sit and look out windows;
they wait once a month
for window washers to lather the glass
and it’s calm, their legs are crossed
they wait for the squeegee to screech
and then they wipe away the rain stains
that should have been pressed in a diary
windows get clean slates
at night you can hardly tell that anything is *****
but today the windows are stained
through sunlight one can see it all
even the grasshopper leg pinned to the fourth floor window
where a man is flossing his teeth
after having craved a super food salad
that he won’t allow his assistant to know about
i have interviews;
and i will pick at my **** stockings
hide my pleasant coffee stains
but not shave my ***** hair
i will sit with the women who take pleasure in windows;
collar bones with freckles and sun kissed tints
eyes always nearly closed
because of the succulent hisses by cubicle #3;
they slither through lungs and offer more
than how many words i can type
before someone lights up another cigarette
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
they are very rough when they sing
their vibratos are intergalactic
high and zigzagged with enormous BOOMS!
and crash into sky
and into Earth
but on Earth they translate the sounds to be birds
and bird wings—they’ve come to call it:
an ornithological phenomenon
how these tiny bodies can emit crashing sounds
from their larynx and feathers
and make them echo around the solar system
is a mystery or two
but no one suspects them
on top of their mountains
surrounded by red sand
tracked with utility vehicles, rovers,
so succulent-free
that you aim to drink the earth
and blink when their proximals help them float
against a martian cold
they bring to the desert false colours;
hues of yellows, greens, and purples
and behind them they leave feathers,
ticklish things to be found by astronaut-scientists
citizens of sand and rocks
which accumulate as field notes tell of their history:
they won’t be catalogued
but they will be arranged by locality
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
i am perhaps too late
light bulbs have synced
and have now exploded across the city
darkness is instant
but there’s light in your body
i follow you like a moth
because i know you
and detect you as my nocturnal guide
and when you no longer blink
i think i might die
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
from andalusian mountains, clomp girls in spidery shoes,
green velvet cloaks of winged-fluffy catkins
they all have plum heads, boys' chins
they are sour, studious in their hopscotch, stale of their billowy plaits—
their blushy moon swallows up cyclops eyes, red-centred
with crocodile feet glowing
like sailor stars
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
it’s a dare. i used to walk alone in central london.
daffodils bloomed in early spring;
a celebration of greenery and my desire for a neon bulb in a heather grey landscape.
strange,
there is a chance I’m lying
i have yet to recover my woolen heart
so desperate to seek city werewolves
and drink lemonade even if it’s always raining
i trade this taciturn muscle
for a drum that is manual, complete, and is alive
at every rockabilly show
(the singers say they’re from glasgow)
where my hips are pressed into my girlfriend’s
who drinks candied snow
and it’s strange,
how the sweat never leaves my brow
it lingers like the scent of potpourri
scattered on linoleum floors of generic bathrooms
with fuzzy toilet seats and powder pink tiles,
i am the one who never leaves
because i feel
all things that I shouldn’t feel;
a magnification of contagious sentiments
i am the last of my kind
i am a daffodil;
i lie, but only in my own reflection
and if spring time is patient, i shall float on the central city,
sighing and gasping at the other neon bulbs
that bloom before me,
strange
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
romola grey plays the glistery xylophone, one foot perched up on a potato mountain. in her arteries are gold rushes, klondike blood and moody oxygen. there is a particular grace to her madness: she used to be a seaweed keeper in carmel, long-finned pilot whale watcher in cork, hoary hair weaver in aix, newspaper delivery boy in columbus—she planted soulful cacophonies of watermelon kids who ice skated around her ankles.
romola grey hits the notes in vernacular solicitude, her fingers in antarctican winds, sloughs off half of the continent of dry skin. she looks for a wolf-boy who will listen to her calls, and her musical outpour of thunderous howls. but there is a nome-alaska body in her gut, corpuscled deep in her legs that trench a frozen pumpkin patch—for she is her own snowy witch with the back of a lion.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
where are all of these women
who wear stonewashed jeans
and buy air plants
for their Scandinavian apartments
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:30 PM UTC
last night i dreamt in one hundred years—or maybe Tuesday
(something close to an emotional green) with my wings, green-wings, solid feet,
a ****** of crows, & bluebird things
a thing lives inside of me: a barnacle surface, broomy orange, windy love, a natural disaster—i think a hurricane
between lust and between gators, these origins of sweets from a great war, helium-ballooned a golden crown into my iron bear mussels
a november cliff forged a giant's causeway; crystals bestowed on the honeywells, a giant's love of separation—we are all a salmon skin,
a fiery light, limestone a buck and a half in our sour grasps
last night i dreamt i saw the giants
they roared like lions, crushed ghost shrimp with their feet and laid their moss
inside of my navel where i used to hide rivers
a thing lives inside of me: it crashes, wrinkles into a beast, grimaces an Oedipal song, plays Saturn games, it rings
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC