Real Love

By - Mar 19, 2021

I was 14, older than him, capable of stopping him. But I’d been caught off guard when he said “Hey, c’mere,” and I just stood there, paralyzed, looking at the cat, the bucket, the hose on the ground next to him.

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WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE TV SHOW

By - Mar 10, 2021

A glued-together castle vs
a single deep-breath.
In your eyes there is always
either fire
or white flags.

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King of the Sewer Rats

By - Mar 1, 2021

Waited for reality to prove itself.

Gravitated naturally toward the gutter. 

Heard sewage down there.

Crouched down, peeked my head inside. 

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Three Poems

By - Feb 26, 2021

My mother, who left 
to live in a safe house 
next to a sheep farm,
ate lamb chops every night

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Three Poems

By - Feb 1, 2021

in college we burned in the dark
thinking our lives would be romantic 

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Aubade

By - Jan 22, 2021

When I think about you in prison, so medicated
you couldn’t hold anything
in, I want to kick the guards’ teeth

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Two Poems

By - Jan 20, 2021

The New World arrived
when we were unconscious

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Three Stories

By - Dec 28, 2020

Her round, though in places pointy, head — which contained her now trembling eyelids and quivering lips — panned the room slowly. She heard a soft rustling, like a dragging blanket.

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excerpt from Alice Knott

By - Dec 15, 2020

At New York’s MoMA, Henri Rousseau’s The Dream (1910) is attacked with a straight razor by a local college professor of physics, who after screaming “I am the fuck of your reality” stabs the image of a full moon in the painting’s upper right-hand corner eleven times before restraint.

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Lobelia

By - Dec 3, 2020

I give my arms a more thorough wash in the farmhouse sink then start to burp the blue drum barrels of sauerkraut.
      
From the window I see the older child in the yard, slapping his hand on the flat stump of a recently cut birch.

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Eight Ounces of Milk Can Successfully Dilute the Bleach Inside

By - Oct 14, 2020

50. In late 1992, on their first date, my parents saw The Crying Game.

51. On Wednesday, Mom quit family counseling. 

52. I make my bed. I lie in it.

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In Umbria

By - Sep 21, 2020

In the morning light, the void of thy lips
Parted as the ropes of the bee skep

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