O I had bad dreams; I was wooded into the sand, lady, I am dead from you all
I found a dead deer in the road at the same time my dad told me not to look;
Do not tell me what I was to redraw that cold war face, to see a woman of what I bleed
sometimes, I wish I were like that. don’t you. how do you break off from yourself do you ever think about it?
Through the smokestacks there is the death of me as I pass the hills.
Glassy eyes in sumac touches she waits for me or doesn’t
as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me breathing in my cigarettes, death’s in the traveler being left alone in Italy; from the garden, all bodied, all that red and bleak
I sit at her bedroom window an age where branches hung themselves Antigone.
Neurochemical duress, the labor of my body aglows, destitution in mental illness; a fragmented waste of sperm
the jagged teeth of a leviathan smiling across the nighttime line running low, above the clouded blue-black ink of deepest sea
Let them ruin you a while let them wreck you for a spell
i only have sensibilities in sempiternal madness
Dreamscape under his influence even the earth Trembles and quakes.
I’m very happy to say that my poem, “Hid too well” has been published in Edge of Humanity.
I had the same hope Sylvia Plath did, at one point, in her journal—she didn’t want to die.
my heart in the oubliette
I didn’t want to know it anymore.
I eat the white hot moon and the fuchsia blood-eating all man
turn away cull the thoughts wanting to go home.
The humble words of the wise “Death is a prerequisite to life “it will always arrive and once it does...”