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Dec 2019 · 81
ATL Dec 2019
and i suppose
it very much is a product- of a product,
tied onto a parcel with a note that reads
“we will love wisdom from afar, and construct towers born from text:  
let us forget that hunger is mightier than the pen.”

I will be told this till comparison becomes a desire for fission- then I’ll take my eyes out
through my throat and forcefully place them on a pike- why would I desire sensation?

Who thought of all these words?
ATL Nov 2019
do you know this?

sandalwood skin wrapping into a magnifying glass and its twin
resting fixed on a bridge between your eyes- a crooked tooth
living as a tiara
purposed for the interruption of symmetry in a smile that breaks on the crest of a sun breathing sight into
all that was lost in a night too dark for an adolescents chagrin to be crammed between stars.

I love
as a desert filled with flower petals
moved by wind and the whispers of ghosts-
with my heart dispersed as a constellation
held together in red light.
Nov 2019 · 58
ATL Nov 2019
I give you toys
to prop and position into forms
frozen halfway through pirouettes,
and a light for showing the
stillness of a shadow stuck in
beautiful contortion.

I rest as a creature half dead from
eating the sun with his skin,
showing trinkets and colors to toddlers in high heels and keeling over at the thought
of ever pulling myself towards something more than.
Sep 2019 · 78
ATL Sep 2019
you are beautiful descending
down a ladder called my spine
into the places I am upright,


till time effaces sharpened peaks-
I will speak of stone freely.

through the space inside of her
i learn

that dissimulation cannot be laughter,

how to tread through an ocean
of uncreated worlds

and claim an infinite nowhere
beside the revolving doors in her head.
Sep 2019 · 77
ATL Sep 2019
I rest unbent
in the dale below,

where birds perform aerial dances
(for love)
in the after-light of a sleeping sun.

Every night
I close my eyes

as heedless air carries my body
above a cotton sea
into strips of honey-colored sky.

Every night
I ask the stars

still hiding

how to fall
and see the earth.
Sep 2019 · 1.9k
last night
ATL Sep 2019
I wanted to learn

so last night my fourth grade teacher
tore my eyelids off

and sat me near a television screen
that showed my mother dying
over and over
and over again.

I left as a cavity
of a boy,

collapsing at the sound of passing cars

as I searched for a payphone where
I could speak to the static about Gabriel.

(where is he?)

When I look at my brother and father

I beg for my eyes to be caressed until they’re scarred

with every daytime matinee
and curtsy on the train platform

that built me into this mosaic
of a “man”.
deeply personal. would appreciate kind words and condolences. my mother is alive but a part of me has died.
Sep 2019 · 144
magpie beauty
ATL Sep 2019
i disgrace evolution
in forgetting
                         to feel.

sweet mind
  serving body

your existence is a contingency
                                                     ­        and i  
                                                             ­     succumb.

for little years
crawling round on carpet

i sat in lint to pray-

                        in growth  

                   i know
that faces are many

inimical wounds
to be left  
in congregation

on my chest.


stitched of love
and to be loved
of death and in-between,


a sublation
for frailty
becoming diamond
in the eyes of forgiveness-

on the cusp of evergreen
with magpie beauty.
ATL Sep 2019
though with due reverence
i kiss the graves of dead poets-

the breathing kind must disassemble an atom to gain a fleck of praise.

no i don’t like it when they say
“i let you hurt me”


treat me to porridge filled with kerosene
and rebar,

i’ll let you
drag a razor across my gums

if you kiss those fickle carmine streaks
that dribble from my tongue every time
i find the audacity to speak to you,

tint me,
tint me with spit and break me into cannon fodder,

i know that mirrors
and **** pipes are real,
cobwebs too.
Sep 2019 · 591
i don’t like my poems
ATL Sep 2019
right now i despise everything i’ve ever written

looking through the stories
of a million untold lives.

i feel my words
as hideous black mixtures;

foolish curves and games of association.

let me
paint them on your eyelids,

and build another sorry ideal
to taunt myself with in the twilight.
Sep 2019 · 182
ATL Sep 2019
remind me that i’m not a nag
and i’ll build you a boat made of
frilled marigolds & thornless roses,

i’ll float us along
and talk about how

it upsets me
when i see pieces of my father
mix into basic interactions.

my fear will leave
to go sit next to triangles in heaven

and i’ll wait for a scarecrow from high school that i loved but never slept with,
i’ll wait and think of your eyes.
Sep 2019 · 216
sing half songs in showers
ATL Sep 2019
since meeting you
i’ve understood the impulse
inside of a grave-robbers mind

when he pitches his shovel
and looks at a mound
of soon to be upturned earth.

i’ve wanted to take every action potential
and place it in the wires on a telephone pole,

watch it spark and yell timber
as tree limbs give way
on the route to the roof
of the home that i slept in
when i knew how to sleep;

ill wake to the sound
of the ceiling caving in

just to think it was creaks on the stairs
during christmas day morning-

i’ll look up at leaking pipes
peaking from the insulation

and ask them for presents and chocolate.
Sep 2019 · 486
i’m sorry
ATL Sep 2019
to undo the part of myself

curled as thin twine on her finger-
that pallid tissue paper skin
wrapping a network of crimson lighting.

veins turn violet
underneath layers of that kind...
my words cannot excavate every color.

yes your eyes were
a freshly struck match;
brief sight before returning
to cold outlines of breath in the dark.

i’m returned to their glow
every time i wish
i could isolate a melody
that feathers my cheek

(scribble the chords on a napkin

for when you get messy)

you know i’m deaf,
but my eardrums still quake
at the sound of falling pins
and dancing angels.
Sep 2019 · 188
my lai
ATL Sep 2019
4 A.M My Lai;

in the lowlight
colors move off my skin at different speeds-

i’ll smear them into filth,
a vignette
plastered and permanent,

and beg
for my face to be scanned like a barcode.
Sep 2019 · 100
ATL Sep 2019
no more ligands
uptakes or exchanges,

just a wall,

a wall erected inside of me,
that rejects all attempts of a raze.
Sep 2019 · 569
a raccoon
ATL Sep 2019
poetry is dumb to me
as it sits beneath this ache-
this ache that becomes my body.

i’m a ***** in an alley,
as bold and as beautiful as a newborn child;

throwing pennies at the feet of
****** addicts and billionaires.

i don’t know why i love searching for food in waste bins full of burnt-out cigarettes,

or why electricity is  
always running
underneath every scabrous sheen of skin-
i’m starting to think that hearts and brains are cliche.

i thought someone might ask about my
instead of all the scars, though they fell asleep.

when i was young
my cliche
started quaking
at regular intervals

i wished it to be a water balloon
so i could drop it on the sidewalk
like a kindergartner.

now it reeks of chemicals-

i’m soaked in ethanol
probing all the people that pucker at the smell.
Sep 2019 · 171
shear pins
ATL Sep 2019
questions undue
stuffed folly into the throats
of mathematicians, priests, and poets alike.

i nearly burnt all of their books,

but a paper boy with wide eyes greeted me at seven o’clock on sunday

and untied a parcel
with careful young hands.

i saw his legs shake
and thought yes,

god is tension;
a string
with both its ends pulled.
Sep 2019 · 138
huygens hymn
ATL Sep 2019
oh i thought the ocean never turned to ice-
then i travelled farther south.

for months i stayed
by the pulsing white sea
growing ill in the cold.

i sought out a cure
for my shivering skin

but found only cots
lined in a windowless corridor,

on narrow frames i laid
and dreamt of morning time turning  
glaciers into impressionists;

snow diffracting sunlight into streams of vermillion and violet

kissing flower-tops
finding color in the spring,

changing frozen bones
into chimes.
ATL Sep 2019
i tear into bookshelves
as if i only eat peaches
to crack my teeth on the pit,

yet you have a dog-eared page

stained with scrawled hearts,
folded and flown across the schoolyard
by a boy walking circles
round a swing set.

yes i picked tulips with you when i was young-
when i never went past eskimo kisses
or knew about roots and ****** falls.

every day i carried needles in my stomach...
i wanted to stitch our skin together.

now you’re landlocked in the rustbelt
counting change all day-
i’d buy you a plane ticket if i didn’t look like saint jude.

i suppose i should
treat you suchlike a sweater
i don’t know whether to fold or hang,

plant seeds in foreign gardens
and carve our initials
when they turn into trees

or scatter your ashes on the throughway,
near a city you’ve never seen.
Sep 2019 · 144
coherence tomography
ATL Sep 2019
this morning I felt myself a bird

and stumbled into the pane of glass
that shields my shower;

for a brief moment

I became a limp body standing up,

with knees folded at acute angles
& elbows obtuse,

begging the ferryman
to float my feathered corpse into
the cleansing chamber.

he muttered assent
in my own voice-

and all the water in the atmosphere
poured directly through a hole
in the crown of my head,

it filled the hollows of my bones
and I no longer took flight.
ATL Sep 2019
I’ve spent the whole of this evening
drinking bug repellant and
wrapping my brain in gauze

because small shifts of her feet are registered on the richter scale
and my chest
is crowded with stalactites.

there are paintings inside of me;
a maudlin girl with porcelain skin unfolding onto velvet,
bleeding into other men.

her crying gave me tinnitus,
now my ears leak silver-

their canals are comprised of melted
nickels forgotten  
in the center console of her car.

come winter I’ll cast a ring,
though I’m terrified of snow.

It’s always sedatives during hangovers,
until every blink feels like pouring dust on a patch of dry grass in the sun-
bleached white.
Sep 2019 · 203
conductor, conductor
ATL Sep 2019
I am offset;

an old railcar piled with pages,
shunted forward a few
inches every Saturday or so.

my mouth fell off on crooked tracks,
now I speak through rust-

corrosion carries all the stories never told,

a burnt patina
imploring passengers to pore through
its contents
till their hands are herringboned with paper-cuts.

it always ends in locked jaws-
with tetanus in their blood.
Sep 2019 · 1.2k
paul dirac would hate this
ATL Sep 2019
when I awaken
I extend my finger
towards a panel of dancing light-

did you know that its veins were torn from a mountain?

a whole hierarchy of angels
living inside the earth
were turned to transistors

so that my letters
could glow in your hands.

when I learned this
I began sleeping beside a stream,

in the places where I could watch
wires dance-

beneath wooden pillars and their flimsy black arms
whispering secrets in permanent embrace.

every night I would dream  
to the forward noise
of churning water;

of fluid drifting through the air unseen
or pouring from life long past-

for the maintenance of symmetry.
Sep 2019 · 627
ATL Sep 2019
I would cradle those abscessed arms
like a marionette,
so I could feel like Jesus-

I watched widows
douse themselves in the same flame  
that took their husbands,

no embalming,
just a bundle of sandalwood
lit by their firstborn son.

so holy it was
with their shaved heads
and their white cloth-

nothings holy in the room
now empty.

I have wanted to be
Jesus a number of times,

but you cannot cry
at the cremation ground-

for their soul might stay home
to comfort you.
Sep 2019 · 90
ATL Sep 2019
I asked
the second hand of a clock

what exactly makes it tick,

it told me that I’m blind
every fifty milliseconds;

I swear I’ve spent whole days
in between the twitch of an eye.

I asked the psychologist the same,
it yielded nothing-

the paper proposed that pupils
scale with difficulty,

mine swallow nebulae
during the easiest of tasks.

I asked away,
but realized in a breath

that those apertures are
little girls and little boys

bundling desire
as twigs to use for tinder.
Sep 2019 · 64
ATL Sep 2019
I heard on the news
that the Apinae are disappearing,

“the what?”

“the drones darling, bumblebees.”


“you should decorate your hair with daffodils; the yellow offsets the onyx.”

you thought
I looked at symbols too often

I thought
you were thirsty for color

“you have never mentioned dying
bees before this moment.”

“oh, up until today,
I never knew that they danced.”
Sep 2019 · 328
ATL Sep 2019
for this body can be unworldly frenzy.

sweet child
barebacked in the glimmering half-light;

adorn your skin

with shell and bone,
with coiled vines and fig leaves-
you love equally
gardens and caves.

before the clouds became
your arms were flesh

athirst and empty;
towards sugary fruit.
Sep 2019 · 117
ATL Sep 2019
I am unborn,
clawing through clutter
and encouraging my salivary
glands to push moisture
through the will of hypotensive

Laying next to my betters,
begging to die of a heart attack
while I *******.

It’s nothing like falling asleep next to someone.

I am nothing
but half-breaths lent as largesse to
a hypothetical togetherness
hurriedly collected in the night
and burnt into reels of film.

I ascend ladders,
my favorite has its base resting
in my cervical thoracic junction,
I climb it up,
always up-

only to find microlacerations  
in the fibers comprising my thigh,
and a lovely image of
a love that is not.
Sep 2019 · 224
ATL Sep 2019
I stayed home
and played with a figurine
made out of plastic.

It was laying in an impossible pose,
resting in grandfathers shed.

a soldier
covered in cobwebs
fine enough to split hairs,
with nicks on its knees
and paint all faded.

My mothers father
moved with the gruff gait
of a Texan, always
carrying books in a baseball mitt.

His mothers fingers
were weighted with turquoise
and she rapped her digits in
patterns of triplets
on counter tops at diners
and motels.

I never knew her,
but I can smell the gin on her breath.

I wonder if that toy
looked at grandfather plainly,
and always plainly.

Innocent and lifeless,
that toy.

I picked it up
and felt myself
returned to my skin.

Later that day
I was walking on the asphalt
in the rain,
my grip slipped on the toy
and I gave it to a grate
collecting overflow
from the ground.

It fell slowly

and I cried,
for grandfather and turquoise,
I cried
for myself and barbie dolls
for Shiloh and birds in the winter
Aug 2019 · 80
ATL Aug 2019
you can see it in the air,
in the emerald green carpets
and announcers writing invitations
in foundation hand,
all inked in crimson.

even on
the slumped shoulders of
scientists and poets
toting epaulettes
on t-shirts.

in the bricks,
held in place with pumice and porous stone-
there’s that fine and coarse aggregate
refusing to crumble and weather.

Over there
that one is speaking Portuguese
to a lamp post,
telling it all that is known about
the heroic epics of the Donghu people.

Across the sidewalk
one is drunk,
stumbling and smelling of ***,
muttering obscenities at the gutter.

it’s always raining pamphlets,
and in the margins
they say to make sure
that you keep your windows closed.
Aug 2019 · 160
ATL Aug 2019
I thought
you could explain
the philosophy of vacuum
and Spinoza
through chattering teeth
and lips too numb to form labials.

In winter;
whenever your face
began to freeze
I wanted to remind you
about occasionalism and

I wanted to tell you
how your eyes
could be heat and god.
Aug 2019 · 203
a herma
ATL Aug 2019
If everything is political
I suppose I’ll distance myself
from everything;

I’ll go back
to become rapt
with Eleusinian mystery,
and begin dancing among
pillars and fluted blocks
at the propylæa-
suitless and light.

The pattering of peoples steps
was the only music
I ever wanted to hear
Aug 2019 · 521
apotropaic medication
ATL Aug 2019
that pharmacy could be
a tree,
spitting small colorful seeds
down the throats of kids
that look at concrete too often-

a tree
with budding fruit
clipped and stuffed
into a sunrise-colored cylinder
by a man
dressed in a priestly white frock,

and I could be
a catechumen
waiting pliantly
inside the trunk,
whispering prayers
to the wood above my head.
Aug 2019 · 106
unnameable fractures
ATL Aug 2019
A.C Hume called injury his own;
he became the ambassador of
the olecranon,
and died a pedant mending bone,

how many fell
before he entered abduction
and set his stern hands
on ailed elbows?

how many could tell you
what such an injury was called
before he laid claim
to the fruits of misfortune?
Aug 2019 · 116
ex. 1
ATL Aug 2019
sometimes I think of
Charles Bukowski
reading one of my poems
and saying “this is *******”

or an old psychiatrist telling me
that in mania,
all work is more meritorious
than it seems.

when I watch ****,
I can’t *** for similar reasons.

So I ask Bukowski,
that ugly ****,
If I can raise him from the dead,
and play puppeteer with his corpse.
Aug 2019 · 98
3 PM In The Morning
ATL Aug 2019
In marble faces I found
a fluttering that pushed blood
into every cavity inside the you
that wishes to be not.

I threw prayers
into ceiling fans-
laying limp inside the gulf,
to know that dry wall peeling back
was all to greet me.

Just ashen fluff flying endlessly
into rotaries,
and an inquiry turned to bird song,
something about windows
and deception.

It’s all cliche-
it’s all cliche,
the dismissive reiteration
of a phrase that piques the you
begging to be not,
coiled in skin,
wishing to be a limping diagram
of human musculature.  

it all grows dimmer
when you realize that
the horizontal is redundant,
rareness becomes
a beguiling piece
of parchment filled
with scribbles
imparting nonsense to the eyes.
Aug 2019 · 187
the sky as a stretcher
ATL Aug 2019
this vessel
houses gold;
without bearings in the flatland,
untarnished and eager.

it was born in small hands
jabbing at polypropylene beauties
spinning on a mobile
above dampened eyes,
uniform and bright.

the spinning never ceased;
ligaments lengthened
and seashells,
once musicians,
became resonant cavities.

haggard winds
stirred glaucous and ash into storm;
the sky became a clouded palette
of every shade between
stone and lightning.

what a fortune it was
to be carried away and found
again and again
in the endless above.
the wonders of tactility,
sweet sky as a stretcher...
carry me into tomorrow.
Aug 2019 · 108
Ob Memoriam
ATL Aug 2019
how melodious the voices of old were;
the way they poured glitter on mud.

the way they questioned the sky
as the land shifted all about them,
sweet arrogance.

but their songs of love are alive;
beyond you, beyond mud,
buried under palimpsest memory.
basal links on a chain of refutation; palingenesis.

Is it artifice to call then into now?
Aug 2019 · 794
ATL Aug 2019
I want to crush up Australia,
turn it to a pebble,
place it in my pocket and drop
the coastline in your palm,
all the coral
all the color.

All the dust;
the red,
voices so far away from us-
I’ll capture the sound,
the whimsy for our ears.

Do you see the water?
Flitting by the outlines of trees once alive-
the tired grey and the shimmering azure.
Do you see how it always hugs the land?

I’ll shower it,
I’ll trace the taproots,
down to every underground
that’s ever existed in imagination,
up to every cloud.
Aug 2019 · 112
ATL Aug 2019
Innocent markings, innocent prints.
(Intaglio, not relief)
Can you tell them this,
can you tell everyone about this?
Please, play the bugle. Sound the horn.

I thought I painted well,
but they all look the same!

Frame me,
in the frame I’ll find variance,
it’s the border that distinguishes
two alike.

Picture it:
me and my tilted thoughts,
resting aslant upon your wall.
Aug 2019 · 115
ATL Aug 2019
Bashful genius;
the architect of bone,
this lively puppeteer,
this Prometheus.
whirling in hot sand-
becoming crystalline unbroken.
Giving order, lack,
order, empty;
carrying all on great tides.
Aug 2019 · 159
ATL Aug 2019
The moon gently pulling jetsam,
the cadavers of children
wading into granules of rock.

mixtures of life in vegetation,
that verdant undergrowth on the
cluttered limestone,
breaking waves.
the rakish laughter on the shore,
sweet echoes, fixed echoes,
the murderous innocence of the sea.
Aug 2019 · 81
ATL Aug 2019
those thighs and hair
peeling my eyelids back to witness
water kissed beginnings,
an unfurling flower,
a pathway into you

fill me,
foreign home,
drown me,

this normal force and neglect

tell me
how it could be spring and candles...
Aug 2019 · 52
hate poem
ATL Aug 2019
Limp and bloodless formality.
Cotton, cotton once picked by slave hands.
Shoes still made by slave hands.
My feet are not afraid of cuts, and
my back adores the sun.
“my thread... my thread is worth more”
you say,
yet I hear a gurgled plea
from a withered larynx.
Aug 2019 · 91
ATL Aug 2019
Sweet unbirthing of apples sweat-
The air does not permit condensation
in such places. Yet the windows...
how grateful we are that they allow light,
whether we acknowledge it or not.

Everyone settled into that teacher with autumn in her hair,
into the voice that matched the correlations of warmth in newtonian discs of color,
always coming to realign.

Together we traded gazes,
and I wondered if I should steal skin
or call a third party.
There were chemicals in your blood,
and your bones had just been reintroduced to fat.
You dragged them through drab carpentry to find fixture in a seat alongside elephantine calves;
in the circled group of offset minds,
I wondered only what tipped you.
Aug 2019 · 698
ATL Aug 2019
on the schoolyard I saw children fall and soon learnt that I would always fetch a bandaid without hesitation.

I thought mother must’ve skinned her knee too.
Why else could she be crying?

And father, oh father,
he cried because his dad had died.
Was it finance?
Was it finance?
Was it really finance?

Oh mother,
careful artist.

square, leather
so soft upon conditioning.

The fissure in both of you;
I inhabit the crack,
and before I knew what fiber was
I was shouting for a rope.  

Loveless not, mother and father,
they tell me this was how it is.
yet the knowledge of a wholeness
I will never know is inside me.

Release! I begged for release.
and when I found it I gave my scorn to what?

The combatants had retreated long ago.
this one carries depths
Aug 2019 · 321
a spectacle
ATL Aug 2019
a lone showman amidst a crowd
stands raised on a pedestal;
he wears a hat,
its brim is lined with bells,
and on the top rests a newly bursting lily-fibrous stalks of nescient life
intertwining with felt and chime alike.  

raising high his flowered cap
he remorsefully disclaims
“you once ate the sun!”
but these words are ignored.
the crude ringing of the chimes
is the only sound that brings applause.
Aug 2019 · 115
ATL Aug 2019
staring upwards,
you leaned on the balustrade
colored brightly on a balcony,
fiddling endlessly with your hair as it
bickered with the wind,
barely birthed
playing with needles and slumping on the cold stone,
creating lanugo all over again,

You couldn't have fallen from that height... no,
walking was the only option.
Was it flecks of rain that woke you,
or was it the sound of the sky crying?

It must've been slow,
trudging down those steps;
after breathing all that loose air
the ground has to have felt peculiarly dense...
(this projection is nothing more
than matter reflective of itself
yet these intangibles
nullify the anguish  
and enliven joy)
Aug 2019 · 90
ATL Aug 2019
it is in that endlessly cascading awe,
with mouth ajar,
and the soft spot behind the knee
folding sweetly
that desolation runs to hide
like a shrew,
in a meadow too dense to show its skeleton

these jests, flying through the hollows,
molded by tongue and tooth,
varying in sound in structure
through placement and growth,
sweet jests
tip horizons askew

veiled wings,
do you hear me?
you are destined only
to drift towards what illumines
the very room I lay in...

many say this is not your home-
they are wrong.
Aug 2019 · 171
ATL Aug 2019
the harmless introduction,
of a new figure
carelessly unwinding
a knot stuck deep inside a dip (sulcus)

marbled eyes
scrunching in
amused perplexity and
a face filled with
intermingling shades
of ochre and wood

an ache to make a medley...
a macédoine
Aug 2019 · 81
ATL Aug 2019
you are characters
top hats and all,
with gauche mustaches
wading through the falsity of a present
with flesh as old as all
that is ostensibly new
as old as dust, distraction,
and conversation

so busy now,
with displacing reference,
busy enough to forget about eyes
and hands,
rock and skin
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