The year of nothing

4 Dec

I am good at biting off corners.

Chewing, swallowing, digesting.

Lying about the things that come out

the other side.


Saying they are not mine.

I am molecules, filled with speed

and empty spaces. The road

vibrates. I am transparent.


I have not slept in hollows in the hills.

But I have slept in the hollows

of your preoccupation. In the

gaps between imitation and


helplessness. But you have never

tasted like lies. And I have never

been made to carve honesty

into my skin.


Missing happens in milliseconds.

It exists in the way the air

can smell sterile.


Go kiss a toad. Walk into

the water with clothes on.

Listen to unresolved notes.


Forgive the hedges.


11 Nov

The skyline is not so tall

you cannot see above the buildings.

the air has been lived in. It talks

of mistakes. Does not try to erase

by saying: it does not happen here.

it admits. it is folly.

the beggars know.


11 Nov

We are not filled in. We are the lines

in artists sleeping that blur

and are never flesh.

We are the dark parts we tell

children not to go to, because

we know their persuasive hope of completion.

and yes, the grime is black and grey

and not in technicolor, not in rich dyes,

but it is richer than it was.

it works in shades, the same

as all the rest.


11 Nov

Not slippery,

but transparent.

the air is corporeality

hard with vibrations.

it smells like cold,

or rain, or love.

unreal, visible

harder than the spoken.


9 Oct

and maybe you didn’t know
that you were repeating it,
again, that i was repeating
it again.

that i knew about waves and destiny,
and past lives. all the energy
that couldn’t go anywhere.

even if i wasn’t a piece
of the ever changing moon.
i knew these things.

knew like i knew that humans
had eyeballs and threes were

i met fate once, but i’ve forgotten
what she said. some screaming
about the price of butter.

so i made up the prophecy,
don’t the waves look nice today?
i noticed your footsteps again.

someday i will float away from footprints,
and paths, and maybe i’ll remember
what she said. and i’ll forget

how to see the circles.

When beasts talk at borders

2 Oct

I guess we lied to you
told you the land was better than
the water because things died here

and that made the love better.
when really having you here
made us better.

and it was never because of your
beauty, well, maybe for the other
storytellers it was, but i think
as a species we’re bad at seeing
with our eyes.

and i am bad with feeling with my skin,
but i know your knives, and maybe
your search for a soul, is the same
as my search for goodness.

i know i did the right thing
telling you it would be better,
because even those people who don’t
tell stories are better for mermaids existing

but i’m sorry.


2 Oct

I heard her melody
of a new dream.

One, not vested solely
in a humble husk of human flesh.

One, that is not an inherent contradiction
exploding when it contacts a realm
where its opposite exists

That isn’t pleasure strung together
in addicting and subtracting numerical
patters because it is the only thing

here. where adding in a single space
of emptiness, when you are trying to make
bounty, results in a zero sum.


2 Oct

what did they mean?
she made heroines with them,
would have made heroes too

if husbands and fathers lost
their stubborn secondhand shame.

and knowing that role models sweat
and cried and felt shame and
couldn’t even define their own ideal
of perfection

didn’t make the constructs
stop dreaming of meteorites
even though they had sisters and mothers

even though they thought they had imperfect
human, love.


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