Were I the Lord

to breathe is an inverse process


to be more intimate

with my own lungs


than the language

that hatches from

pruned dendrites

and pitted citrus


to slather my own lips, boiling

clementines and speaking suns


themselves. To know systems

and universes more than our

melting orangesicle mouths


our skeletons rather than gods.


Name These Obsessions Cardiac

It teeters between extinction

and fluttering in pterodactyl

fear; you’ve been diagnosed


as an offbeat fossil, where

leathery hearts take flight

above orphaned tea kettle

steam. Juvenile, voltages


slightly jasmine. These are

your skies now, a cerulean


hatching that has scattered

its ventricle eggshells, hung

from ribcage like Christmas

lights or gallows: subtleties

of home vs. territory. Refills

are never found in existence.

Thank the Trees for Falling

How many different personas

have crystallized—white gold

rings that have sprouted? Wife.


Servant. Holy Woman. None.


Which of my years were left

abandoned by the wolf pack

ripples, gaudy in reflections

occupied with their wealth?


You pry my lumbar fingers

with the same tongue used


to beg by plastic godheads

for the blistering sins you

forgot: splitting my nails

by the clandestine candle,

plucking out my saplings


like splinters. Use my skin

grains to craft your chapel:

alcohol to seal your letters.

This is not a disaster.

The feeling that fuels

your arctic phallus

turns your spine

into dominoes

dripping black

like oil, churns

our butter faces

from the nerves

aged as religion.


That’s not the problem.

All I can muster (while

the invisible adrenaline

propels me like steam)

is the implementation

of our corpses better

and the world clean

for those children I

repeat I never want

(or that the universe chills

before the dirt preserving

our lonely genitalia so we

won’t miss out on much).


My dopamine—receptors

and recipe—for stoicism:

adopt a plywood novelty


as ewes overdosed

on oxytocin chew

the crestfallen auras

of abandoned lambs


like clover leaves.

This tastes happy


but new, weaving limited-

edition diaphragms from hay

fever to nest heaving breaths.


I’m yoked to the pituitary gland.

Wheezing with the lunacy seasons.

Alive. I’d rather be the wheels.

Romanticizing My Demon’s Arrhythmia

He claims it’s a matter

of impotence. A seed

that’s too soft for our


modern soil. He says

of my skull, coarse in

body and ectoplasm,

scrapes away his will

along with ventricles–


how he imagines diving

nude among coral reefs,


his perplexed genitals

mindlessly pursuing

endangered colors.


He claims tachycardia

what I call breathless.

It’s a matter of honor:

I inform him of volts.