Diffuse (7 of 30: 2018)

Ambient, bustling city
running bloody

Compressing something
between the lungs

Steam breathing,
petrichor and ammonia

Dreaming and unseemly,
being invisibly

Why do I feel
more human here

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Social Cue Haiku (6 of 30: 2018)

A face, a puzzle
I cannot solve. Expressions:
a language unknown.

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Amigurumi (5 of 30: 2018)

String thing,
easily unwound,
ringlets unfurl along
the direction of the wind.

When threadbare,
I’ll be similarly unbound,
with the easing out of a single
thread down through the spine.

And with every stitch
pulled out and undone,
I’ll try to make something
a little better next time…..

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Decathect (4 of 30: 2018)

Rotting tissue multiplies to
four times its original mass,
spilling out over the arm rest
beneath the pale screen light.

The summer air is dry here
but that makes little difference when
hundreds of pounds of flesh
begin to liquify in the east-bay heat.

The stench,
and the stain you leave,
will be great— magnified by
weeks of hot-boxed confinement.

And after the alcohol, klonopin,
and self-induced sedation sing you to rest
I’ll purify the remains in fire and scatter the
ashes somewhere more peaceful than you were.

But I won’t be bereft, nor pained,
having already spent my years grieving you.
I’m still haunted by the skin you left behind—
that painful monument to the potential you wasted.

So, no, I won’t weep for you,
I won’t mourn you for one more second, instead,
I will take a moment to admire the beautiful grave
you spent most of your life digging…

And I’ll keep on digging my own
until I’m ready to lay down beside you.
Anything less would be an insult
to the hell we shared.

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Ebb (3 of 30: 2018)

I think I might be broken,
hoping for inspiration to sucker-punch me,
like it’s one of those mysterious, magical forces
acting upon a will-less object,
like it’s never been mine
so I don’t control it, own it,
and am, instead, beholden to it.

An easy-to-digest, obvious untruth,
this self-gratifying, self-indulgent,
flagellatory ego-buffer.
Lining up barely sensical syllables
in rhythmic succession to give depth to
an otherwise pointless and brief fretting
is more pointed than I prefer it to be.

But who am I kidding?
No one, that’s for damned sure.

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Preying/Prayer (2 of 30: 2018)

As a child I operated under
the misconception that
it was ‘preying’ mantis
rather than ‘praying’ mantis.

And I get why the gesture
is used in the name,
they do have a rather invocative stance,
but they are so associated in my mind
with hunting and killing—
hummingbirds, mostly—
that preying seemed/seems apt still.

And isn’t the mantis a perfect pairing
of preying and prayer? That they are
naturally pious in the cannibalization
of each other, that their prayers
are often answered in blood—
from hummingbirds, mostly.

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A Growing Cynicism (1 of 30: 2018)

Spring is burgeoning
in the wizened hand of winter
but there is still snow on the horizon—
even as the mosquitos begin their equivalent-to-fucking.

It’s really something to watch the world turn,
to watch life running, fucking circles around itself,
and this renewal makes the earth feel almost infinite
in its capacity to replenish; all while we choke the light out.


i never think i’m going to do this and then it’s 11:50-something.. on 1 april.. again.

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