Thursday, April 27, 2017

New Orleans

some people are vessels for multiplicity
while others have edges more bound,
insides more like solid rubber

here where people paint their porch ceilings
blue, a heavy fruit tree
water damage

I can zone out on something imperfect
but sometimes I get the feeling
my brain is turning into one flavor of mush

tears fill my face in a balloon way
and so I breathe instead of cry

a few warm days of winter make a year a bag

something was new,
an exception to the rule

account for your baseline because
the rest is random
icing, nothing

Sunday, April 2, 2017


when bliss runs its course
and the week’s teeth are bore
gripping to the oval of time like
a greasy carousel pole, up and
down to remember how it felt
to want a horse