Word Count

How many syllables am I

allowed to baptize?


Teething commas suck

void from the page


around ellipses’ breasts.

They pray for milk


like stars hunt hydrogen

or vultures for limps.



Tread the line between therapy and poison
like huddled rattles
in the Black Hills.
Antidotes were made for arrows
and glands,

not the mouths
dripping in indigo and mice.

Thin strips of soggy pelt
mate ecstasy
with rigor mortis.

There’s expertise. There’s experimentation.
The difference lies in the electrons
lining pufferfish lungs.
There’s three protons
between breath and salt
and one distracted knife
between breathing or not.

The Allure is Crepuscular

for nights when stallions blend

into the field, cool watercolors

weeping into



such nights when saddles taste

like lemonade from the groves

licking quicksand

instead of springs.


A sprig of lavender to summon

seasons, to trot the quilting sky

into the cortices

instead of dusk:


a tame pastel or pleasant scent

was never enough to slaughter

throttled astrocytes

with a broken leg.

There’s Calcium in Your Bones, but Nowhere Else

Misguided as mammalian milk

painting Picasso in a fish tank,


you are surrounded by udders

leaking pastels to our oxygen

and a new hormone mistaken


as growth. Maturity is beige

and splotchy in fluorescence.

We’ve gouged out timelines

for submerged glands; there


springs up nothing but black.

Start a truck with a tank full

of blood. We are rich in oil.

Take Care

It’s time to wear the sun

for a second head, death

weaving a pearly filigree

to puppeteer your teeth.

I don’t know what to say,

but you’ve forgotten how

to talk without the chatter

of dissected cockroaches.

Digest slowly. Altogether,

take notice: I’ve mistaken

the moonlight for curtains

and your nervous system

for undercooked noodles.

Geometric Armories

Lay down your arms. Limbs,

mannequins of violent angles.

Shrapnel nails. Plastic smiling.

Chests twist in Mobius smoke

pale as cigarettes. Addicts for

throats like the Old Testament.


Parallelogram claws intersect

intention with a perpendicular

pastel. Its softness cracks like

china. Roundness to tectonics.


The chips tingle ice. Isosceles.

Dishes shake at sixty degrees.

Why should we see sharpness,


shapes where colors could flow?


Drink analytically. I’d rather cut

your hands than calm the stirring.