Category: Poetry

...what I mean is does it have to hurt to mean something?

After that, of course, he had no choice but to ridicule the mourners, mock their tears, as if the moisture on his own face were in any way human.

The church walls shining in arches, growing vines, peacocks, and vases.

Flip a card of power at Ravenna— that a battery comes alive—flip a card

I keep walking, hands buried deep, collar turned up, and then I see them— a man and woman huddled at the bus stop, stealing kisses between clouds of breath, laughing like the world isn’t breaking a little more every day...

Tilt Everything is bricking out. Nothing turns red or black or hits trips or boats up without consequences. By that I mean the man gnawing on his knuckles and his baby daughter somewhere he can’t go...

Silence does not exist: Faced with (im)possibility Things that My body Speaks to me, Usually whispers, Are now made screams.