for the ‘gram

just write it down, plain as bathroom wall scrawls, like a one minute video, like only the chorus of an old rock ballad everyone already knows the words to, each line sounding like something they’ve heard before and already believe

a bee pollinating plastic flowers melting in a too hot sun, boca background ,dappled light through filters, it looks like something when the angle’s right; it looks like truth, like glitter, like love


with hat and horns
gunpowder for a white
man in buckskin peeled
from the backs of fathers
of fathers of fathers
he speaks three languages
while I speak none


Now I’m on a bridge or an escalator, or the top of a flight of stairs,

A church/house filled with hallways, a flooded basement, warm as bath water,

Broken glass reflecting lamp lit empty roads.


I am walking on a city street. My shoes echo. Condos cast shadows like prison bars.

The sun is setting, the shops are closed.

And I can’t find my way home.

a small note about pockets

Women don’t have pockets to carry the things we need to carry so we carry them in our bodies until they become a part of us. No nightstand tray, sling bag full of bad experiences, memories of our mothers. We carry her too, in our bellies that wax and wane like moons puffed up with blood and feelings, the throb of happenings, the headache of things we’d rather forget but cannot, tucked behind our tired eyes, icepicks of regret in our temples. Give us pockets, big ones with flaps and buttons to hold things in, let them bulge from our hips, expand our chests. Let us take them off at the ends of hard days, lie them across the bench at the foot of our made beds. Let us lie down under popcorn ceilings and sleep without dreaming.

Mirror Image

We found that bird, neck snapped and bloody on the deck under the window. Towers look like skies. you said gnawing on the end of a bone. The skin is the best part.