The South

I am
Plugged full of blood
As a little mollusk swims inside of you

Powder over everything
I am
Powder on my face

Wet beans
Rust where it shouldn't be

Bushwick Ave

And everything

With diamonds

And purple
On the kitchen counter

The global air
Hits my lungs

Final Poem

Cancel my servers
Your hair is a mess
Your blankets are boring
The speakers are broken,
Are broken,
Are broken

Going Dark

When the apocalypse comes
I'll come out on top.

I'll know how to sit in time.

I won't be guilted into intuition.
I refuse to be guilty.

Times Sqaure

stadium lights make the night
sound different
in their cover
we are ablaze

we celebrate
shirk responsibility
toke up

standing outside in the rain is crying
from the outside

renewed in the marble mirror wiping heavy from your eyes


from up here
we are making the night
a night

a new year
calling out
for you! for you!

Paraphrasing E.M. Forster

It was a comrade.

Bending over the house,
strength and adventure
in its roots

But in its utmost fingers,

And the girth
that a dozen men
could not have spanned

Became in the end evanescent
till pale bud clusters seemed to float
in the air

It was a comrade

House and tree transcended any similes of sex
she thought of them now
and was to think of them
On many a day and windy night

But to compare either
to man
to woman

Always dwarfed the vision

Yet they kept within the limits
Of the human

their message
not of eternity
but of hope
on this side of the grave