Down here, we hang our visitors’ coats

beneath a menagerie of specimens –

we congregate their tongues in the tip jars

with an aromatic swirl of bitters and whiteout.


Take your stories back to the thirsty blacklight.

Shoes will be polished with the amniotic fluid

of your new throat. We’ll pull out an old voice

in umbilical ropes and ask you not to breathe,

if only momentarily.  There’s something fresh

and zesty that lingers here, the flickering bulbs


hanging from exposed pipes like empty lemons.


We taste our light and we take our fruit

beneath the diorama of fluorescent pink,

buoyed in a martini of birth and erasure.



There was a blue man outside my room today.

He prowled the rooftops with shovels for limbs

and an excess of tombstones strapped to his chest.

He frowned at my window with gelatinous dimples.

Had lost his features as though they melted off his face.

In response, I pasted giant googly eyes to his forehead

and hid the crinkled receipt from his new gaze

as one would a proper gift. Asked him how he felt.

Suddenly, he was more green. Cerulean, as if he

had swirled a bit of the cosmos in his molded flesh.


He told me he wanted to plant a forest tonight.

His saplings were strewn out to dry in a damp prism

of emerald. Wondered if he could tuck into

their asthmatic shadows like patchwork

of laughing darkness. Already removed his eyes

so they couldn’t show him the dawning world

as the sun blew away his warmth from their stems.

He’d wanted to hide, he said. I’d thought otherwise.


I wove cornea from the psalms of mourning doves

and hooked them into the rumbling, convex plastic

coating his new vision. He was a sickly gold, now,

splayed on the glass like a star before a black hole.

Said he knew I’d kill him today. Suck the evening

sky out of his skull like unnecessary trephination.

You all do. Doesn’t matter, I’d decided. He would die


without the lobotomy, anyway. Well, something of him

would. I chiseled his lunar name into another tombstone

and placed it in his stretched knapsack. Plunged the pick

beneath his jittery pupils and began our work.

Watched the world spill greedily out of him. His chest

concave. We’re always devoured by stars, regardless. 

Felt his head go cold as the ground turned orange.




When they requested fingerprints,

you pressed down the mesh smile

of an unplugged speaker where dust

has long replaced the orchestras.

There’s an OtterBox instead of a skeleton,

says the signature. Do you need AAA?

answers the donor check. Measurements

as black holes of ink. Anything to claim yourself

a galaxy, a droid, or just a simple machine,

instead of a warbled voice going nowhere.



Meringue ankles.

I asked it to embalm the sun and all of our laws.


Chiffon digits.

I asked it to feed the starving constellations shivering in celestial gutters.


Clouding senses.

I asked to drink as well, to drown and hallucinate.


Improper science:

I asked for it to manifest.

Unsavory Harvests

Spice is seined from frowning earth

into loaves of flavor and celebration.


Microscopic abandon

is grated from dermis.


Sap has hardened. Cinnamon bark

yips wakened morsels down edges


of my geometric shadows:

rot, you unshapely ellipses.


Our roots expanded. They chipped

the fruit bowls. Medicate on ginger.


Our processes are wintry.

We’ll ripen out of season.


We solidify. Crumble. They tasted

so stale. We peel so softly. Shame.

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.