Do you write with or without capital letters? Why or why not?
i write without capital letters not for effect or affect
but because I’m unsure of myself, my words.
i fold paper for a livingpeople think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.
i sit by a park bench, chant numbers under my breath and bend each fiber of light, fragile paper just the way i want.
because it makes you feel powerful? you ask. and i sit there and smile at the words that twitch the sides of your lips.
i sit here and watch that simple square turn into a crane right before my eyes - with my hands - because i can make it happen. i imagine my next move, anticipate an outlook and create beauty out of the simplicity of what the bark of the tree next to the bench twisted into from the paper in front of me. because you've been ugly your whole life? you ask. and i laugh at your naivety and inhale the scent of the rain.
the musky scent seeps into the paper and carries itself into the presence of the butterfly i folded. and it sits on the mantelpiece with all the other folded paper i find beauty in. i watch them on cold November mornings, when the fireplace is lit and the clouds sig
into a briefpoverty is the servitude of love, he says.
atlantic whispers to a time where this citied-desert
settled to dismantle the sun in a pair of eyes, fashioned oratory
and absolute- unhinged the moon to conquer its inheritance on a world
aching prismatic, dark and precise. these twinned sky-eyes sought
the softly hushed airborne lament of a divine girl; sold the orphans of gale in his chest
to uplift the quietude of her linear back, and weaved silver lining dreaming
to coiled smoke-breath, renting vacancies to stars unfurling
by her timely pacific death.
unsexed eleven consenting months, gentled the rough lining
of your spinal-coast chord and set sail on solarly winds birthed pragmatic.
our seaworthiness empties truth in fistfuls. the autistic dark of your eyelids
curtain the blink of settling dusk. thunder cries to stricken gravity, shocked stark:
i wonder when the youth of you proclaimed itself meek with unwary.
i wonder if the forc
wilko's flea powder is full of permethrinhalfway through, words bloat like dead birds falling
out of your mouth.
sparrows nest every spring above my window and drop naked from the gutter and it's like this:
standing on the patio staring moronic at pink rows of skinbags,
three minutes behind discovering one alive.
someone else is doing a bad impression of listening. she scribbles two-tone down the wrong
side of the page, turns on the fan and all i can hear is a turbine
scooping up armfuls of air and vomiting
all over my neck and you talk
about stuff that happened
last night and i guess
i was there but
it’s a question of taste, completely subjective
this is what i’m told.
.i've been breaking out of
hell, but the devil don't
he slips a return ticket
into my pocket and says,
you're gonna wanna
use this, kid
of oncoming rain
through an open window
somewhere laughter spills
how to talk to girls at parties.two carnations hang on the wall, and you could be the reason
her leaves shiver as she slips off her skirt or her petals part
when she tells you that her father left when she was thirteen
but your roots are stuck in plaster, held fast by sticky doubt
that her pink is too perfect for your ruddy complexion, that
you’ve been picked at too many times by impatient fingers—
swallow your pride deep into your stem and tell her the way
she leans reminds you of a family picnic you went to where
all you did was sit against a tree with your sister and laugh
by whom? i forget,
the boy's a lullaby -
31 years dead and still singing me to sleep
the boy's a magician -
his aria turned my noose into
pearls on a string
The L-wordthe fear which follows lesbian
there’s no crucifix here, but for the way tongue slips down L-shape,
lips pause in question, like a cross-
ing, teeth flash white closing in.
tight-lipped, and so unlike how I entered the world
open honest, with a scream to announce my pain
when the doctor laid his hands on me—
a sound separating me from death
the gift my momma gave me
I answered, no.
the science of sleep.i don't sleep anymore. or at least i don't think i do. it's one of those things i stopped keeping track of like the number of words that make my mother cry (cancer, lists). if i'm being honest, i stopped sleeping (maybe) around the time i started thinking in a series of parentheses.
because i don't sleep, my arteries demand too much air (oxygen, clean) from the space outside my window. i make my room my heart, cold. it fills with a wind only bricks can breathe, an ice only soil is willing to withstand. i am winter's soul.
the world becomes a different place when you stop noticing sound (mute, black and white film) and start noticing every movement your bones, your muscles and the acid in your organs make. you start twisting your spine to imitate the birds spreading through the branches like cancer and you force your fingers to bend in unnatural angles to stop the shaking. but aren't we all just mocking birds (mockingbirds)?
when you stop sleeping, your body becomes the experiment and y
maybe i read that in an interview in the paris review,
or at the writing workshop that i used to go to.
looking for an online loveri have ginger hands,
i wish my pores
were mestiza freckles.
no, no, no, they're not.
they are just pores:
i'm going for the truth here,
close up images
of my current age - 39.
by the way,
what do i look for
in a man?
i have no format or template.
but would you leave me in peace
so i can write poetry,
bake, talk to flowers...
and at night, would you
seduce me? i would very much
like you to.
© june 2, 2012
it's not braille, just bad handwritingpart i // they smack their heads and scrape their knees
on already bloody tarmac
stains of future suicides
i wonder if they know now
what i didn't when i was them
the thunder in your head
as words swim around on a page
as you try to contemplate
life without life
sky high on a building
you are building your own solar system
part ii // i will close the gap between
life and death
part iii // the concept of dreaming is so clearly explained
when you can't explain it
and 1.54am nightmares make for happy fairytales
part iv / / but i still skewered my past into fragile bones
and they ask me if i'm feeling okay
it's a bit like a mantra isn't it
a few words to get you through the day
it does its best
but i can hear creaking through unstable cells
there is no beast in me doctor
just a low howl at the moon
hook, line, and sinker.dear god,
you're becoming a cuss word &
i don't know if you've heard
but he's rattling the gates of heaven
he says he's wasting his time;
that the day will arrive
when the same string of pearls that sew orion's belt
will fashion itself
to adorn his neck -
alnilam drawing out his pulse from his wasted existence,
atoms colliding with beauty in their movements
to form a speck
a light year away.
he has a tattoo of peter pan
inside the hollow of his wrist,
& leaves open his window
'cause he seems to think
it would help peter to find him.
he believes that we are a collection
of the same atoms of stars peter lives on,
that neverland is a compilation
of lost boys' souls you've drawn him from -
that gravity is no barrier
from keeping his head in the clouds.
this week i've seen many shooting stars
& i don't know if you're weeping,
but those clouds are seeping to his bloodshot eyes,
fireworks blazing through dark night skies
like it's midnight all the time -
but dear go
it could be completely aesthetic driven,
dead bodies floatsickly saccharine
out, bomb raided
sacked and decapitated
dead bodies float
And they said
just go back to sleep
when you grow up, you want to be a scientist.
you want answers that are irrefutable,
you want truth to drip like arsenic from your lips,
evidence pried from the ruins of a long dead god,
until they regret they forgot you.
in eleventh grade chemistry, you find an outlier.
you find your own biosphere
in your bedroom,
alongside medical journals and crochet blankets
- he is not a scientist, but he explores -
he goes on a excavation of your closet,
wears sweatshirts from the distant relatives who don't know who you are,
ones with animals on them or patiently knitted together with wrinkled hands and maroon threads
instead of the ones branded with the names of ivy league schools
he digs out drawings from when you were knee-high,
and pours over
the history of you -
"i'm not interesting," you tell him.
"i can name the planets, sure,
but you can tell me who they are.
why you'd bother
with the body of a dead boy, well,
i'm walking, sure, but barely -
i'm wisps of coffee fumes
empty, fullthere are stars at the bottom
of this bottle.
in your head,
there are other bodies--
might have something to do with,
the look of the dot hanging out there, just above the i,
Possum and Hiccupafter sex, she gets the hiccups. he runs his fingers along the pale highway of her sternum and listens to her throat spasm: it lasts seventeen minutes before she curves her body away from him, spits the taste of him onto the linoleum.
(don't do that.
spit me out like that.
as if i taste of possum piss.
the hiccups have stopped. he pushes a shirt toward her and inhales the smell of stale beer and curry powder: it takes her five minutes to struggle into her clothing, stub out another cigarette and walk out the door.
erosioni hunt you
always in the dim coriander shadow
shelves of thought.
it became a worry when
to taste like lemon
and burning walnut,
with an alien flame
roiling up inside
the sunken balsam-wood.
the grains in me bow
wherever you slay them
and a lash of cheek in the mirror
caught in the wrong light
when i turn
looks like your
as your knuckles
shake against the steering wheel
soft as waterthis is the funeral
where grey ash spreads
& in the air, a traffic of kites stream across the horizon,
the ash of sails, ghostly non existent,
sails set wide, slicing across the Hudson river
the water heals itself
rescinding wounds, sowing back together the places
where edges meet, and we become soft as water
doves sow the horizon thus, weaving through the kites on fire
& the lovers on fire
and the burns and burns and ink stains
on quiet carpets
everything became a silent memory buried under graves
in the cemetery sails bloom in deathly renaissance.
overpopulation expands exponentially
underground, in empty spaces
(between the sand, rivers, dust storms)
waves recede and seagulls echo
and the shivering saline sea is rough
(baring our naked spines against the asphalt
of the shore, the seagulls soaring echo
more truth than we'll ever know)
they know about:
recessions, receding shorelines and horizons,
and men retreating within,
i indent because.
guide her spine}