Words. Lots of Words.

Normative Ethics — April 6, 2016

Normative Ethics

An Ought, is a very heavy kind of thing.


It follows you, ball and chain,

stands on your shoulder with wings

light as air and knocks you down

half-moon, bent knees.


It in itself, is followed

over and over by the next

Ought. Standing each upon the other

built, up, supported by the limbs from their bodies

up, and up, in interlocking rungs.


Until there is the sky, and you

cannot see the Oughts anymore,

and so you wonder, what they look like

all the way up there.


The sky would be a nice kind of thing

to touch, and if you knew what it looked like

all the way up top, perhaps it would not be so


Generational Violences — February 18, 2016

Generational Violences

The stories we heard were only half-told.


And now, we are left

to reconstruct old wars

from their aftershocks.


To piece together histories

that were never written down

that make myths of the present.


We work, with the tools of our archaeology

-we learn to not dismiss the dust

because we never made it a pharmaceutical,

because we don’t have the language to differentiate

the soil from the silt.


We try to make old battlefields bloom,

we water them with the blood of our guilt.


We make new stories,

about the aftershocks of war,

fight over their meanings.


We fail, to ask them for their old stories

the ones that were never written down.


Storytimes — December 9, 2015


There have been a thousand nights.

A thousand ‘not tonight’s’.


A thousand mornings you have

not chopped off my head.

A thousand mornings I have

kept it.


I have told myself a thousand stories

so that I will not have to fear

the tomorrows


will not have to wonder, when it will come.


There have been a thousand mornings

where you have seen only your own



instead of your woman-less country,

the suffering, the daughters

you killed.


We have crafted thousands

of words together, you have

made me a thousand promises


Maybe they will come true,




Unsaid, Unfinished —

Unsaid, Unfinished

I live with a ghost.


I let him in the front door,

second-hand sadness and all.


You can see him

-in the smoke curling off the stove,

the steam in the bathroom.


He leaves whispers on my cheek

-names of people long dead,

love letters long forgotten,

wars long past.


When he leaves the house feels empty.


I leave out drops of milk on windowsills,

fancy undergarments across the floor.


“There is life and vitality here for you!”

I shout, if only you would stay.


Caverns open up inside of me.

As though I am the ghost

-waiting for blood and water to flood back into me

along with the rush of his shadow.


I hear knocks, and I twitch.

I hear whispers, and I swoon.


The old house creaks with me,

like it misses him in its bones too.


I would let him in again.

Second-hand sadness and all.

I miss the whispers and old stories.

I miss the smell of death.



Prior — November 3, 2015


We are reaching for something beyond us,

calling out to the mother-void;

knowledge before language,

gods before men.


“recognize My honor,

My valor, My struggle,

I found the true thing

I had no need of mortal womb

or breath, or touch, or speech

to know this truth.”

Visions — May 2, 2015


I want them empty,

but they are full.

I want a lack of lines


Space, to roam in curves,

a world that does not

incite these kind of angry tears.


A world where we do not

make places for people


all mapped out roadways

and jurisdictions and over used tropes

and zoning houses and business



I want a place where my kind

was not cut from a rib

was not laid over the image of earth


to likewise be pillaged and raped.


A place where I am empty,

and my emptiness is without

further meaning.

Spattered — April 28, 2015


It feels impossible to explain

the gap.


the great void between

the world of feelings

and words.


the gap that makes aesthetic lists of grotesque

bloodstains into stomach churning

that feels something like love


the endless blackness

of speechless sex

dripping and warm and dangerous


that cannot hold the simple form

of two people playing parts,


the subtle violences

of ideas, the fleshy


Fictional Problems — April 8, 2015

Fictional Problems

there are endless possibilities

itching at my back of my hipbones,

crawling out between my ribs,

spilling through the gaps in my teeth.


it could be vomit, and bile,

or tears mixed with semen,

makeup and sweat,

happiness, sorrow, insanity.


slipping between the milliseconds

hearing you call me a goddess

and a whore in the same breath


demonic, tied up in the

scratching. sloughing off skin cells

unsure of what will

come up from beneath:


mermaids or harpies,

your terror, or my own.


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