in what is a life time, as well as no time at all there is an immense feeling of moon-remembrance, as the outsiders whisk their care to the shadows and Mahler plays on the radio and the sky opens like the upper-world dispersing the clouds and sea as eyes empty, everyone with crude oil on their hands. car horn, the night still in your ear, an inimitable ambiance of fear in the other. all the tired flowers all the truing corpses all the pitted lies devoured feverishly. there is a light on in the cerebrum and the moths gather in ecstatic glee while the moon resides comfortably in the morning light andd the city whispers it to sleep.


The body is our misunderstanding. I want your mouth hugs.

want your teeth tickles in this wool sweater I am wearing because whatever. Because inclement weather. Because I have been for months trying for months dying for months I have been the apron hung for months the shiver of winter in my bones birch and eyes tongue. Every year (24) for Christmas my father has given me silence and I wonder what he thinks I keep doing with it. I made this poem out of it, which is better than making war with it. I prefer the passivity of fruit. Everyday I practice contorting my body into the shape of a banana. Someday I’m hoping via muscle memory I will stay.


the world is a-lot to consider, so, in order to avoid getting dizzy, i stick to ships & other little thoughts; like how to peel an orange more efficiently, or how to develop the ability to look through you while looking at you. i don’t think that it’s necessarily possible, but i also don’t think that it’s necessary impossible; like when we first saw each other on that bridge your eyes said, “there could never be anything in the world more beautiful than this," but then i wrote this poem, which is


are you awake? 

i am, in sorts. 

ambient music drifting in and out of the conversation 

parked beneath the morning tree shadows.

maybe on repeat,

parenthesis here and


i remember a nightmare i had when i was seventeen, 

a coffin and a castanet and a fiddle that laughed before it wept,

it was a labyrnth of has beens and never have’s,

a genie and a lamp shade placed over its shapely head,

a wish i wished that would never end,

a genie a lover a friend

who knows,

i miss you, 

so and so and

so and



Through window there was light, and through the light there was still more light,

but also shadow and sky and clouds, depending upon where one focused their eye.

To see past the trees one must ignore the truth growing near the treasure stairs.

To see the truth treasure stairs, one must ignore that which rested beyond the lense.

Frances was always wrestling with this field of vision.

Points of focus and un-focus.

Always missing something, as one always does and is bound to do.

All that is seen in the dawn –between the moon, the wind, the darkness – hovered about like dust, infinitesimal specks of a reality passed, being pushed about by waves of air, emerging from all the various nooks and crannies of Frances’ head – settling, unsettling, resettling.

Sounds became sounds, worlds always worlds.

A migrant word arose, “aura”, and disappeared into otherness.

No longer in that fuzzy feeling of un-being, aroused by the intentionality of consciousness.


Here, full of a name, of what is impertinent about us/ in us, when the light leaves us glowing exactly/ exactly too/ exacting the decay from our pale fauna/ the instant is citrus inside me/ a small blossom of/ nectarine/ I am afraid of many names/ but not of the things named/ the thing named is often just a shadow/ when really the word is the shadow and here I am hiding behind them/ enshadowed/ with what fecundity I opportune to align myself with what is most agreeable/ with what requires the least surgery/ fewest sutures/ in time, I think there will be more time/ that is a certainty/ when I try to think of what is certain I black out/ when I try to picture eternal/ I black out/ when I try to black out I see infinity and it is tiny


dead-eye loving me/ like two suns exploding/ like when I speak of my insecurities, how freeing that is/ like how I is short for ego and how that makes you a plurality/ like how you are full of names/ like how what I write and what you are are physical extensions of our creation/ of our ‘we’re so soft spoken ’/ of our mothers loyalty/ like urns of feelings/ like death broaches/ like how we just need more love/ like how everyone just needs more love/ like how childish and platitudinous that sounds but how TRUE it is/ like how some animals mate for life/ like how some animals mate variously throughout life/ like bruised fruit and how I never learned to tell when mangoes are ripe/ like my pen exclaiming is exhaustion by ejaculating on my wool sweater, black ink all over/ like the sound your body makes when you first get stoned and listen to life on loop/ like how this has to end but I don’t want it to/ like how I could go on forever about death/ past death, just to avoid the question of what a feeling truly is/ like how, when I yawn and squint my eyes, the world looks like a Gustav Klimt painting/ the one with the kiss, where everything seems like it ‘just is’/ like how I want to go about the world in my own way, with safe housing in my pockets, writing your beauty eternal into the jaws of infinite dimension



Currently the stories are about sensitivity,

the heightened awareness of an almost

meteorological feeling, a feeling of pain.

Sounding boards are abnormal totalities

caught in the ward of kindness.

Night and day, the company under duress.

Feelings lean on perceptions; perceptions,

construct and deconstruct themselves

by piercing a fiscal theorist over and over

on the psychotic island of comfortable literature.

Now is the time to see into the darkness of love:

the name of its shadow is Desire.

It is bough stunned by indecision, 

huddling in the crevice of over growth in your

procioceptive backyard.


What then, the arm of an away, ever to amaze the sculpting hands of a distance negotiated by and through, through and by the writing of mountains to love you to. Passing by through a channel runs underneath the pond somewhere deep in the heart of my rot, of blood in the stone. Hand fuzzy on the eyes, I sing you to, over cloud pardons the amorous hurt I weighed you with, where found love found near the summer of forest blooming towards, I had been. My suitcase was full of silence, I had nothing to tell anyone, my voice was a seed worth blossoming to. A sun sighed, the world in a way was something of you inside me.


your horizons are blending/bending the bedding of deer sleep inside horizons of me. air person and this declaration makes you understand evaporation. a dint on my shoulder a gesture towards with particular vastness. in times of morning I am asleep but the light brings me back to me. it brings me into me. what this dream means, what sound seems when it is puncturing me. tell me everything you have seen, then tell it to me again backwards with the glint of one-hundred see years on your soul.


The magic book of poetry sitting here,

open next to me,

spins into itself.

After everything inside has been set free,

upload speeds are completely unthrottled,

beautiful pollen begins to emerge from behind the secret wall.

Detachable things are prepared,

the imaginary wrinkle on the page

sings like the ground on a rainy evening.

Come on,

how can we see each other, 

where does awareness go? 

Let's grow tall,

and talk about the picture you took one day before the rain.


When I walk into a room I bow my head. The room is to be held sacred, demanding reverence. The room which organizes the disposition of my daily activity. The Room. The room which is blooming. Dust in its many mouths. Light seemingly emanating from its teeth, digesting me blindly. The room which is space partitioned, as if space is separate from itself. I leave open all the doors. Space breathes through the walls. Space smiles inside me. It displaces the disquieting nature of my human constitution. Space is the most generous allowance. Space through which I travel everywhere, me and my voluminous body. Space which nurtures the expansion of my voluminous body. I am in between two places, between infinite points. I can feel the pressure from all sides, my body is the destination of that pressure. It pushes back, my body, it displaces. It rebels. It acquiesces. It is a throbbing. I am exactly what I am. I am. Such an exactitude forever remains outside of me. I am exactly what I am both inside and outside of myself. What I am is exactly what I have been allowed by the spatial tendencies of the ordering of things. What I am is the culmination of an explosion of gaseous stars, which, in their deconstellation, reached their new temporary constellation: my voluminous body.


she died a thousand times when she heard about the way you existed after hearing one of her poems. She was so touched/ so moved to the afterlife that she forgot her lungs. Oh well/ Oh, well, the glacial glow volumizing a speckle of love I may throw, oh, who knows, to the wolves, to the cliff-throes, to the sea goes your face I glow/ on/ off/ & froze. I want badly to love you/ you bug-eyed stalagmite. To fossil the nerves of dandelion greens on which grasshoppers laugh louder across milky meadows &, do you think, if you saw my genitals, you would find me any less an animal?


The acacias and geraniums, the honey-suckle and the camellias, the dogwoods and the wollemis, the amsonias, the white pines, the maples whose sap weaves everything we touch into lattice fences that we continually climb upon and attempt to fill the widening 

interstices with sighs and wrought gestures, wry grins and abject revelations, into ceaseless abandonment of prior dispositions — Hems of past events, such as kisses or thoughts or the naïve, ephemeral joys of

prior days haunt us in the present condition, tie us to the wells in which we’d been wishing — A projection on a wrinkled screen continually skews the image, never as it seems, never as its been, rejuvenated moments pass onto the next;

Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist. Exist;

Climb atop me in the flower bed, in the foliage — You breathe, I too — Exhale;

Existence is here and everywhere — Open your eyes, I open mine, everything happens at the same time