Explore

A branch breaks and the body lands the wrong way. Snapping is easy.

His name is Lloyd. He lives on Percival. He’s super creepy.

How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?

Doctor, he devoted. When she poorly, he bring her mint tea in bed.

The citizens of Aunay believed Pierre Rivière batshit, dimwitted.

It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.

Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.

Poetry can open. Is there a case for poetry in this plague year?

Imagine first the mighty blast. And then the mushroom cloud.

We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.

Art is a way for the mind to master the body, even if it is not one’s own.

she thrust to where her gut bucked acid & gave out a taurine heave

The purple-eyed women on her mom’s side began generations ago.

It’s like having your parents in the room. Patrolling our sleep, our sex life.

I reviewed the rules for myself, among them: stay in the moment.

My mother hoped moving would erase the affair with a married man.

My first suicidal ideations occurred to me when I was ten, eleven, twelve.

As soon as her grandparents left, BLAM, the dance in her died.

The Poet Laureate reads three poems in his New Hampshire home.

All down my street the new fathers beat the kingness out of the kings.

Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.

He got people on the conveyor belt that carried them up to heaven.

She had learned that it was easy to get Sylvi to do things.

If angels were made of music, surely they would vanish.

The world is where we brace for a joke that’s about to be played on us.

As far as I was concerned you need never have been my father.

I sobbed even through hymns sung too gently to lend me cover

I keep waking up on the edge of the black lake. He’s on the other side.

I was happy I had no one to talk to, to be alone. Happy to be in the hospital.