The handwriting is on the wall a white smear across the face of the sky a smear of white a white chalk smear on a blackboard sky an inky bleed that eats everything. Come clean. In the dark we all look alike, right? Wing of a bald...
Indigo pool, color of the wings of the biggest specimen captured in glass in my second room, that one iridescent, incandescent, a word I wish every nigga knew. Not too far back, my shadow embraced me so long I thought I was Narcissus, pulled deep into my...
Everyday some brown woman pools into inky blue, a madness that crawls up from the floor of her and flows out all around. I should know, for months swallowed in the bruise of myself reaching to hold my hand. The sun continues to brush orange light intermittently everywhere despite the...
All things begin from the spindle, we say—life spun from graces. I grew like rain from rumbles of my parents’ cloud, a dark dawn, admitting growth. In the beginning, I squeeze into existence with a head, white, silhouette-like—formed from the stomach of the hard earth on...
Of birds then. The diagram is a symbol that brings nets down, and what gets trapped in nets, as it is expelled from our hands, and rid by water, is a thing, that reflects, traces, and symbolizes.
The town does not exist except where one black-haired tree slips up like a drowned woman into the hot sky. The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
The aftermath always happening like an airplane falling, or a man midair falling from a horse, and an arrow, a gun, many guns pointing away, at us, our all bull’s-eye-on-the-mark. This is what he sees when he sees. Maybe Wrong or not, the...
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe...
The woman sits clutching her knees inside a short-necked bottle on a beach, looks up smiling at a mouth above all imagined itineraries. We like to think she volunteered to be lowered into the bottle. On her own idea, even her own craftiness, lured into being enrobed with...
It is Hermes stepping off his winged sandal. ... I saw the Writing Spider sitting with aplomb Even his caduceus, despite the scandal dead center her creation, above the compost of its forfeiture, lies abandoned (sage location); what I wondered most like an Android or iPad on...
The faded remains of ancient advertising — captives on parade in native costume. Now the whangam, that imaginary animal led by Wharfinger, keeper of the wharf. And you, my puce, sitting between the paws of the mechanical lion, his brittle heart of glass. The regiments of holiday...