before the new year

i feel like throwing up.

i feel like throwing up.

i will let you take all your little stabs at me.

let you come with your tear sharpened knife.

let you bring all the knowledge of my secret shadows—

of the curve of my feet, of the hollow of my stomach, of the

pink skin of my scalp. 

let you come and I will sit here like paper until you punch me through

a hundred times a thousand times a million times

with your stabbing words.

and then

i will float away.

a song

you say you say that maybe today
we can right all the wrong
all that we have to do is swallow the sea

you say you say that its in our reach
how can i not hear the song
all that i have to do is splinter in breezes

in breezes
you say

and i---i know
its hard for you
to hear the words
like kites

and i---i know
it sucks a stale
taste to have these
fights

but you--you have
to trust that when
i speak i know
whats right

you say you say that we can today
we can forget what we said
all that we have to do is step off this cliff

you say you say that it won't be hard
when we're in each other's arms
but bones fall harder than stones fall faster than this


and i---i know
its hard for you
to see me dry
like leaves

and i---i know
the subway seat
feels deeper
than it seems

but i---i have
to trust myself
to know that
what i speak

is right.

the bard garden

that garden touched my soul, it said you
could love your young love against these
marble walls in covers love him dark
like her black knees pressed to the side
mouth on metal love him light
like your hands intertwined spewing floating
ephemeral dreams

color theories (continued)

iv.

when I was nine

I had an existential crisis

on a mountain

orange

onyx

oh

I couldn’t figure out

how to spell my own name

my father told me to count sheep in the city.

one two three four canteloupe raisin firetruck hole

my teeth tried to talk to me

I told them to stop.

v.

you foolish fucking finger

go back to sleep

keep dreaming of the day

when you were webbed

when you could do more

than simply dangle

at my side

navy

quarter

pillow

the precipice of possibility

was yours, and you emerged

broken

vi.

joe’s carpet

is neon

pink

ugly

orange

he lies on it

he is a shadow

he rises

he is joe

i lie on it

i do not rise

v.

clouds bloom

in the toilet

water

a fish is

dead

gutted

red

red

red

my finger is

a fish

it’s fins

of skin

flap

sadly

at its

side

vi.

in the night

yellow looks brighter

like cat eyes

or burning flourescence

nine lives

like filaments

quivering

as I

walk down

the

gum-stained block

people snigger

and I tell them

gold key

beer bottle

knife

fuck off

v.

two fingers

face off

in

the palm

of my hand

they roll

and it is

comical

one so much stronger

than the other

one so much greater

than the rest

its wrinkles

speak of its

allegiance to my

hand

wait two years

tiny finger

and then

maybe you will

see

or

maybe

not

vi.

cream

moon

sole

she talks

about a woman

perfect in death

like marble

stone

bone bruises

sapped of

color

she speaks

of the

death

i’d see in

your eyes

on the subway

round and hard

like an angry

stone

v.

black

white

black

my finger

is as

dark

as the earth

beneath

my fathers

bare feet

and the stones

thrown

sharp

and the

night

the tip of it

splits open

and another finger

rises

like the

moon

the third

finger

wavers

in the middle

forgotten

vi.

to get married

is to share a bed

to sleep

together

to have a hand

is for two fingers

to stand together day

after day

can I get another hand with this?

vii.

you suck the

skin off of my finger

like the skin

of a grape

the pulpy flesh

towers dotted

with seeds

the three ways

to see

this tower of seeds

green

blue

naked

viii.

my knuckle

hangs its head

in shame

shakes its

head in sad

acceptance

of this world

in which

there is a snail

in the sole

of my shoe

Dear Henry,

Yesterday, I found a small piece

of your aorta in my shower.

It spoke of Cherry Garcia ice cream,

whammy bars, and berlin.

I was just trying to wash my hair, Henry.

Trying not to remember things like peeing

like mixing drinks and saliva like the floor

of the closet on the fourth floor like 

your bedroom floor like the way you 

floored me when we first fell in love.

And all this hair stuck in the drain now.

Each strand a suffocation, no, no you cannot escape

shower tears blocked, and a low searing hiss.

Henry, I just closed my eyes.

I didn’t want to find a piece of my own

aorta in there,

too.