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.



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.

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.


Cortices trail your shadow,

umbilical tastes left intact.

We develop from formulas

to recipes. We begin to jelly.


Lips fall from putty smiles. Nobody

sets. I melted for winter. You cook


cobweb smirks through bricks

like brown sugar: that ethereal

clanking when we clatter

like dropped lollipops,


how jawbreakers giggle

through vending machine intestines.


I’m made from homebrewed indulgence

and caramelized roadkill: bones jut forth

from bastardized earths

like sucrose mountains

peaked by broken teeth.


You are slimy with the gum of tomorrow.

Go home. This world infects your mouth

with mushrooms,

your tongue post-

marked by tires.

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.