Log Cabin Reveille

You wake up To the fire Covered In creosote plumes Your mind is the flame Smoke stokes your lungs Into a sputter of breath. Your liver is where Your heart used to be. You have no use for Your heart anymore. Something smashes. Was it glass? The soldiers of light Marching through your window? You’re…

“…sunshine on repeat”

  It’s 3 a.m. again. Seen from Earth, the illuminated fraction of the Moon surface is 5% and waning, sharper than a scimitar – just the width of the slip of her witch’s tongue. Darkness seeks its own level, it’s a slow-sleep in her veins. She stirs the stars like any other woman would stir…

Another Fractured Fairytale

  They’re trotting along briskly in front of me, the long last rays of daylight spinning their locks into cornsilk. Spandex-clad buns jiggling in unison, they are the picture of American health and domesticity. The family that jogs together something somethings together (insert a word that rhymes with jogs… flogs? cogs? snogs? nah, still doesn’t…

Quarry

  My circuits are overloading Your words are the crush of Diamonds I’m showered in You toss them at me like nothing more than a handful of glitter Tonight clatters your Sacrifice in its thunder Smell the nitrogen And remember this moment His hands skim over my limbs Tracing my body’s Braille with blind fingers…

Thursday Night At The Farm

Tonight is warm. A half-moon dangles from the sky, serving itself up as the evening special. A delicious dish meant to be shared between lovers. The air is still. Moths fly lazily dazily in the sultry air. Drunk with love-light, they bump into a lantern. The lantern glows amber and receives these collisions unperturbed. It’s…

Who Won The Debate?

    Quarter after one a.m. It’s mourning again Another day undone I’m sick with time The moon is all slick silt Slinking into a horizon That’s invisible Derisible Like I am Now it’s gone One potato Two potato Three potato Four My floor is covered in peelings But I still eat the skins The…

Passline

    There’s the toss. There’s the die. The storm crackles snake-eyed fission, we’ve thrown every bone, and the circle squares itself roundly, cornered into linen folds, waiting to be neatly stacked after the starching, but I’m no triangle’s victim, my angles won’t be ironed. All I think about is how you once held me…