inlandbecause upon arrest the ocean sits with
but never occupies
because when I woke the anarchists
were demanding suffrage from heaven
because the news announced whale bones
pulled from a mountain in turkey
because i went to the liquor store
and the missing posters were gone
because every noise the city makes
is a foreign language falling extinct
tthe soul can be purgedt2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
people is the wreckage studying itself
pacificher longbow mouth is un-pacific2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
strung; loose bottom
lip with a cocked
births into him like
autoflowerreorganize the bodyautoflower2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my artillery is a hall full of dancers
because to avoid death the ocean divides itself
and divides itself
until she's a shadow full of rooms
or eventually even the acid and the earthquake
But we've imagined this backwards.
the elephant's battered radiation talks all prophets from the building
Upon the stockpile mouths flood dry
and so many cardinals
of that hollow universe
And so what, auction the wind
After, no one will be left to speak
and I laugh because the same parts divide us
For the machine:
I hang these plane crashes from your clotheslines
florenciashe believes again that possession is a kind of miracleflorencia2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stuttering in metro the history of continents
a bird > a woman > a room
of old linen
in abstracts of florence parallel florencia
her bones and pangea could be drawn there maybe
think: if this train derails
because time because the failure rate
is absolution divided constantly
it's like freedom and indica
all contraindicated folk religion
the hybrid on her tongue like a brief encounter
with old lovers in a rose garden at fairmount part
i thought of you today
thought of los angeles
that pathology east and of high-rise
designed to dance in the event of an earthquake
all the things that brought you back there
it's not the act of breaking down
on highways on trains in parks
it's an inert brand of want
that feels something like evolution
and oh everything is full of condition
i drink and speak your name often
but what an accident this all is
sci-fi stories about the end of the world1.sci-fi stories about the end of the world2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the species invents prophecies
all of which contain terrors
a beleaguered sun collapses into itself
It's not yet night when the committee interrupts the regularly scheduled programming
and describes the inertia as unforgivable.
Outside the grief, the cardboard:
Every time you teach a computer about distance
the terrorists win.
In every scenario: No colorado left,
and survivors leave messages
for the future.
Before the last people on Earth forgot how to speak,
he thought of that day.
The committee was right
to describe space as an absence.
The more artistic
of the species' prophecies include fields
such as here and there
relative to the everywhere of the other thing.
The other thing is often the cause
of whatever terror has been imagined.
The terror, of course, being another word for nothingness.
someone is remembering the pacific-
a maniac fires his rifle into a crowd
later, the news interviews a woman,
"All i remember are balloons"
they say this is w
the fountainthe first words were notthe fountain2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sun and moon and stars, but oh god I will wear this
power like a bearskin - like a drum machine in a chicken-bone
instinct is the sum
of all the parts we're too afraid to eat:
black wires, white bulbs, wicks from tallow
candles. if they
would let us, we could make wax
we could hunt the essence
of smoking fluorescent galaxies, all our
strange living lives and neon paradises, all our
blue planets and disemboweled sacrifices, if only we could
breathe while below us the round sky winds down
and holds bone to our throats, so we
are spilled, forced up
if sugar were
sweet, then could
names, reachingi am here, steepednames, reaching3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in this orphan darkness. i
am here, and you are not,
and the slow bone oceans between us
open their mouths, close them again.
i am here and i am forgetting the way here
has curled over my chest at night as i breathe,
in and out, heavily. my weight, the white daze
of waking, this has not been enough--because i am here,
and you are not, and i am forgetting the way patience
gnaws its bonds in the night,
breathing. the spread echo of your skin
on the spread echo of mine.
Dragonball Z fanfiction limited 32 and a halfWhat she describes are mountains. All kinds of mountains.Dragonball Z fanfiction limited 32 and a half11 months ago in Scraps More Like This
Mountains halved and sheared, their white glistening meat-
mountains bordered in black oil shores
flashed and bleached until they metastasize
to the bruised t.v. horizon, the magnetic illustrations echoing
and organizing themselves to a coast
photocopied and scarred and photocopied again
over and over until the brutal distance becomes the mountains
convulsing and blinking in and out of existence.
cliffcliffcliff2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on velvet roads,
I impale a belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-
I have no qualms
with the dark hills
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:
the thrum of the ground
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.
i and youwho is it thati and you1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
you dream of?
is it me
with the knife in your back;
do you see me
the woman with
a wolf jaw
cut slack in a growl?
do i pounce you?
do you defeat me
with the knife
i gave you?
and i wonder the sound
of me when you
finally put your demon
she is a venus
(her body cut from
the ivory tusk with hips
like that of a valley,
breasts shaped as
two moons caught in
and i am the trap
she slips into.
i cut her head
into a loop land wear
her round my neck
in a young countryOur people surrender to depression with elephants in their poetry,in a young country3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the suicide machines built like the helmets of astronauts
more or less proving god's absence in their wake.
We've perfected the technology to photograph an airplane
bending at the moment of impact. This is the world we were given.
In our books the bodies fall upward and nobody prays. We're left
watching spines stand and drift into an exodus of hands in a video
of unsinkable buildings. Our state is overpopulated with expositions
of the ache that some get while staring at the sky. The folk music
of our planet's oceans can no longer lessen this place's collisions,
all of the metal in our bodies is homesick,
all of these geese stayed behind and froze to death in the park.
wantingdoused in milk and honeywanting2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the Queen rises
you've got the devil
in her eyes coming
out like drivel lies
she wants you, paradise
but what she aches for
is to turn
a murk bath into
arms hold you round
the neck and
to the floor a rapid;
cast her into
stillyou lust to make his long legs quiverstill2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like two blades of grass
heavy with morning dew
but you're the first frost of november.
AnnotationsIn free countries every word is inflamed with flowers.Annotations3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There are always funerals to attend.
That Soviets sent atheists to die in space
only evidences the premise that an ache is sovereign in humans.
(Collectively, we've done all the drugs in the catalog,
worked to exile ourselves from the pull of suns
curving around rooms, bent like trees in the soft algae radiation)
Who entered who is irrelevant in the procession of things,
but important to nation building.
People often leave each other with the windows set like clocks
to bloom at the insurgence of a feral moon.
They call the silence an animal,
a painting of wooden boats lined across the strait.
And people used to cross there, I say,
smoking with strangers in a bright field.
This morning, another nuclear physicist died.
We begin to question the notion of accidents.
And then the gravity and harmonicas;
woman smiles down the wall.
When news comes from the past I remember you were beautiful.
Dried-up river: Tell me you've bee
we were found beneath the seai've been meaning to tell youwe were found beneath the sea2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(i swear i have)
i'm hopelessly addicted to throwing
messages in bottles
and losing them
the milky way.
i had once thrown them across the mid-
-length of seas
but then you would
and leave them,
much like the nights you found
rhythm in my
i found your messages
(i swear i have)
i'm tired of shooting seagulls
and watch them fly
the milky way.
i had once chased them shouting mid-
-length of the sea
but then you would
write a letter,
throw it to me,
and windowsill sit,
much like the night you found
poetry on my
and then i found verses
(i swear i didn't mean to)
i thought you stopped
yelling metaphors to keep me
i just thought you'd
stop painting your dreams
on my salty
i wrote fabricated honesty
(i swear i didn't mean to)
i wanted to whisp
In my bathroom againGod's in my bathroom again,In my bathroom again2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he's shaving the patches of his
beard and pulling clown-faces
at the soap. Last night
he held me as I lay in a fever,
made little screams, kept
the hot tongues from my face,
the mushrooms from my
He says his old girlfriend
tried to drink his blood, that
it messed him up
for a while. He says
it's been a long time.
God looks sad, jingling his
teeth at me like loose
change. The clicks of my
heart make me sick;
folding his pyjamas
the kind thing
geneticandgenetic2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i was a landslide; you should have seen me
desperate for the
alcoholic lungs in my chest
to swallow the sea
like it had done before
when i wanted to drown
in the same
rigor mortis of my ancestors
Tricks for Surviving Martial LawIt's like making deals with a god you don't believe inTricks for Surviving Martial Law9 months ago in Scraps More Like This
And then it's Oh fuck I died in my sleep and the word field as in radar as in
the paper garden in her hair as in her yellow hair
weightless and writhing in a lake.
Then the onslaught of press releases promising a calm and a quiet in the radius,
“beginning a self-portrait by painting all the people you're not is irrational”
it says 'shhh we're waiting for you to touch yourself,'
it says stop resisting, it says go back to sleep and dream the t.v. psychic and the white hail
annexing your wild deserts.
The exit plan for depopulating the landscape is that enough near-death and you become like the weather, strange and illegal,
all bright foil garbage shining in the hills,
a brutal afterimage of the commercial aircraft weaponized through its disappearance
and the perforated sunstoned suicide and how this metaphor isn't a metaphor.
There was something beautiful here
and the evidence of this is your standing army. This is what y