Monday, March 28, 2016


and in the distance, lightning

after losing all meat beneath both wrists,
she sends me gloves, a zippo, pairs of needles(both hollow &

dang. and here i thought bar cruel, her stool
the only flat on tilted salt lick floor;
a man and his horn, shoulder blades in neon light
the cross-stitch click of glass and ice.

that night. know better. without my fists i cannot shake you.
telephone pole licorice and piled cumulous, illuminate.
i sit a curled brick, passenger seat. moon wants in, her gold teeth
putting waves in the river.

let it all.

Friday, March 18, 2016

poem by Franz Wright

To Myself

You are riding the bus again
burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.
And I am with you.
I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,

the little lights off in the distance
(in one of those rooms we are
living) and I am the rain

and the others all
around you, and the loneliness you love,
and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,

and the catastrophic dawn,
the nicotine crawling on your skin—
and when you begin

to cough I won’t cover my face,
and if you vomit this time I will hold you:
everything’s going to be fine

I will whisper.
It won’t always be like this.
I am going to buy you a sandwich.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

back when the lopside of bricks went noticed
& puddles mere pools for kicks--
us a group of kids playing grown
posed over rippled reflections, arms slung
with hair juts and hip thrust
sneers that shook our cheeks
teeth still years from busted--

double zero summer sweat funk
wake up bare mattress
sunk couch coffee-slopped kiss
the square at lunch where we'd sit
buzzcut and sick to hear free noon music
viceroy breath between brown-bagged
business suits
and your laugh, the devil
and that heart, a murder

up late to hear so-and-so beat guitar
back to bark
sliding notebooks through condensation
one hand on center of gravity
other courting pen

clear liquor seat punch
an evening that slips egg yolk
down back of car as we
blow the pop stand and blame the muse--
i've gotta go get this down
before it gets gone on me

pocketknives and rooftops dug at flesh
before city burned our ears to the rind

when the best beds were front yards
tilt back necks
we ate


them stars