a series of rarities breathe us life.
fierce beauties in eccentric embrace
sand-dwelling creatures of rebirth
doting on found objects and
patterns of speech,
our blood is obtained from moonlight
pulsating with our hands raised in worship to
the nature of existence.
sunlight is new life, static sparks
exhaling with anxious strength.
the air here is electric; quick with impulsive
moments of audible affection reaching
across the morning.

while we revel, i bury my face
into your neck, holding you closer than
never can find us,
breathing in peace
and thanking the day.


(for dave.)

like envy, we breathe color into the day;

surrounded by depressing jests and

exhausting circumstance. 

writhing is for the brave.

three days of spilling salt in uncontrolled quantities

locks your face into a broad expanse of stillness; i 

can't see you 

behind the glass in your eyes.

there is a numb response in a shade of monotone.

the body has declared war. loose synapses mean

tears, basal function resigns without a word meaning lungs

forget air, heart forgets blood, sinus pressure...

and i admire my bedsheets for maintaining their pleasant 

shade of green. i have

minutes, and fingers, and large rolls of newsprint

carrying the scents of a defiant adolescent

(exhaustion, striving, burnt cigarettes).

it must be-

postpartum depression.

maybe i'll be famous when i'm dead

wishing i had kept my life a secret.

and you:

maybe someday you'll find the pretty green 

in the weave of the bedsheets.