Stop looking over my shoulderRenouncing it all, its transparent scarlet paper,More Like This
its sizzle, its over-the-top commentary,
I could push the sun down with the slightest breath —
quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
old newspapers and a judge, saying hello.
Sometimes you feel ghost-scripted by the storm.
Small detailsBeyond the sandblasted doorMore Like This
on the edge of a sofa,
black, knife-edged cushions
collapse under the weight
of too-small details.
Her shirt is camellia pink.
A Christmas tree is off to the side.
For a suspect, she’s cool,
dismissive. Her eyes reflect little
of her motive.
It was a long time ago, you think.
Let this one go.
What we know of fiveFive is the third prime number.More Like This
It is congruent, and in dreams we fear
Since it may be written as 221+1, we refer to it in whispers -
a Fermat prime - constructing polygons in secret
with nothing but a compass, an unmarked straightedge
and our prayers.
Five is also the third Sophie Germain prime, the first safe prime,
the third Catalan number, and the third Mersenne prime exponent.
Five is the first Wilson prime and the third factorial prime.
It is an Eisenstein prime with no imaginary part, alone
in its power to insinuate itself into any twin primes
it meets in passing.
Five is the first good prime, yet among its brethren,
forever isolated by its own uniqueness.
Perhaps to keep it humble, the universe denies five only this:
a place at the base of the aliquot tree.
pedestrian gazerplexiglass wallsMore Like This
on Gibbs street
allow me to spill over like rooftop smoke
crowning fourteen floor towers
so that i can haunt hazy skies
exist in pits of stomachs
i am already opaque
so let me climb pipes
reach extend and rise
i want to fly
GlassGlassMore Like This
Glass is dried light.
What we cannot touch
now holds our wine.
Yet once caught,
a nervous hand, brown grit will shatter it.
My words are dried perceptions.
What I cannot say
now fills the silence.
A strained image, a hesitation ...
What I give to you
is a thing alien to itself.
Painter's WifeThe Painter's WifeMore Like This
Whenever she sees the virgin's face,
her mind smoothes itself into a blank.
Her husband thinks it's grief. Rather it is grave recognition.
She hears the hiss
and scratch of angel wings. When she sleeps,
the angels curl up against her like fevered damp children.
They never console her for the dead child
that floats in her belly. Whenever she forces it
out into rough being, it swims back
into her huddled emptiness again and again.
Her husband has painted a multitude of virgins
as though by painting a woman with a living child,
he can give her a living child.
But she knows better. The virgin bore a child
for those who want never to die. She bears the messiah
for those who want never to be born.
Prima NoctaIt doesn't happen how you think it does.More Like This
You're probably strung out, ducked into the wrong alley to hit the pipe. It waited there, watching you, biding time until you were good and fucked before ripping a new hole in your throat. Maybe your thigh if it's in a rush. You spray out all over the wall, all over yourself, all over it. You just see yellow eyes, fucking foot-long tongue lapping you up, and then nothing.
But then, something. Maybe you smell dogshit, old take-out containers, dried-out tampons and whatever else people threw away along with you. You reach up and around, wipe the maggots off your face. You find a door up there, push it open. Daylight. It feels like a blowtorch on your hand, and you smell your skin bubbling away as the lid falls closed.
No, you didn't smell it. You tasted it. Tasted your skin burning, just like you're tasting this dumpster and the filth you're swimming in.
Maybe you sleep.
Maybe you wake up just in time to hear the truck grab hold of your roac