Uses for Sand

You had never tasted the ocean,

letting the waves flay open your youth

and settle their scales inside taste buds

like little eggs – weaving saline discovery


into a granular pelt. I used this moment

to explain the writing process as volcanic

islands – breaching humpbacks –

an archipelago of keys and letters.


I meant to imply it was deliberate and, eventually, cold.

Calculated. Gelatinous. To you, however,

I’m just slow and warm,


a pulsating earth passing the time on lukewarm sludge

until I’m molded into something a bit more divine

and the universe, frozen and misshapen, lets me hibernate


once more beneath the mantle.


Porkbelly Press Chapbooks

As I attempt to rekindle my literary side after my first graduate semester, Porkbelly Press launched an amazing deal: a bundle of three books – any of them! – for $20.00. Considering the time and dedication put into these beautiful pieces, I would happily pay full price for these. Their Etsy page is an endless stream of five-star glowing reviews. Each book was magical in its own sense, yet so different in their themes and formatting. My selections were as follows:

  • Feeding the Dead, M. Brett Gaffney
  • What’s pink and shiny/what’s dark and hard, Sarah B. Boyle
  • Daughter Shaman Sings Blood Anthem, Kristi Carter

The latter two are written by women with a background in gender studies, while Feeding the Dead brings forth a very macabre tone. I’d highly recommend all of these, and Porkbelly Press in general. You can follow them right here on WordPress, as well as their Etsy Shop, WickedLittleHeart.

Thank you for your time! Go out and support these fabulous independent presses. 😀

Thank you for the pyromancy

when our aortic spiders incubated

their reservoirs of pressure and spindles


her shimmering body crawled out like

glitchy escalators from a haunted parlor


blushed with rubber and oxytocin

wearing fragile circlets of contraction


divine its chromosomes in cobwebs such

gasping chambers for little phalanges such


pastures of copper all the mating

cells in those fire whirl fingerprints


the fetus is squeezed out in fat  

globules like princess sequins


listen: branded with stellar iron

it was named like a constellation


(and they called it hot hemoglobin

and they called it a kaleidoscope)


we herded its horned astrocytes

like a bull and hogtied it a heart

He was hungry for the world

so I ushered him

tarp my body towards the sun


butter-side up

like a slanted copper arch


nail it down by

margarine vertebrae


to soften, to slouch

to expand a golden staircase


steal this spine

sticky with dried impulse


as your ticket

to board the universe


just promise

you’ll crown my skull


a constellation

preferably a soldier



slumped on an amphora



and inconvenient to paint

Journal Update

Once in a blue moon, I’d like to call attention to works that have appeared elsewhere and the generous journals hosting them. In December, I’ve had three works appear through multiple outlets. Two of them are quite nascent. One of them has reincarnated into a new form. Glass is an especially intriguing outlet, since they would originally publish one poem a week every Wednesday. Please feel no pressure to look into these, as I aim to not only support my own name but promote just a handful of the dozens of journals I frequent.

Thank you sincerely for your time and the support. If you take away anything from this post, remember the small and large publishers alike, the pockets they empty, or the lives they dominate for the selfless proliferation of literature.


What are the symptoms of wanting

outlets to melt in your hand, stick

to your cheeks with cheap licorice?


I console my batteries like dying

crickets. Wait for that leg to sputter,

the mic in its thighs to gain power.


Pure water isn’t very conductive.

I dare you to drink from wetlands

that don’t transform your feet to rubber.


The electric tongue, stilled in new tar.

Lily pink lingers on your fingers, misty

on the matter if it was Advil or candy.


It’s not about healing anymore

but liquefying your spine into

rivers brimmed with biomass.

Gratitude (Free Write)

I toss my tantrums to the apricot walls with last year’s toys, their nicked batteries splaying in transient stains across the whisky tiling. Leak in Christmas ribbon crimsons, desperate innards shimmering in gaudy tissue. Of course, I call this crying. I tear at my own gears like gutting pumpkins; I squelch like a rotten gourd. Of course, I can’t call this crying. The frontal lobe sneaks out in the guise of melting crayons, skinned like the shadows of runaways and their coughing grey trains. I am a child. Thank you for the womb. I wasn’t good today. Thank you for the goo.