my poetry


From June 2020 to Feburary 2023, I Usually Felt Nothing When I Should've Felt Something

I am always in love.

Fuchsia petal hangs on for dear life

To a strand of spider's web who

The wind paws at like a kitten

Making it twirl

Round and round.

Tangled electrical cords;

Sensuous snakes.

Wet autumnal heaviness

Of a crinkling dead elder rose

Drooping like a ballroom gown's stiff corpse

Frozen billowing mid-twirl.

They lied when they said the heart and lungs

Are dead pieces of meat

With no strange electricity illuminating them.

They lied when they said things can be named.

But I lied too.

The spider bit me.

I tripped on snakes.

I tossed the rose in the garbage because I was told when flowers die they now mean nothing.

These days, the ribcage holds slabs of meat.

I lie every morning naked in the snow.

I cast a fishing pole into the grey slate of sky,

Searching for a flash of light peeking

Through a forbidden pinhole.

And every once in a while,

If I am patient,

If I am disciplined,

There is a voice

Dripping through the thick grey slate

And resounding through the rotting meat like a million newborn stars.

I think I see a violet peeking through the snow,

And then it is gone.

This Is the Inception and Demolition

This is the inception and demolition. Right here. This air. This flesh. This pathetic hunk of meat. This beautiful voice of God herself bleeding from its pores. This is all. This is all. This is all.



pulsing in neck

screaming in belly

pound in head

fear of breath leaving

flash of iridescence behind my eyes

Good People Can Do Bad Things

I threw a chair across the room.

A wooden chair

That gives you splinters.

It knocked against the wall then fell

And it started oozing blood.

I hurt the chair.

I grabbed the back of my neck and cut into it with a knife.

A cherry syrup started to pour out,

And whipped cream oozed.

And I tasted it and it was sweet.

And I decided I wanted it inside me,

So I sewed my neck up

And left.