The only useful thing I have to say about racism.


don't shoot

Jesus in the garden
prayed. Begged
for his life.
Because we cannot take back our cruelty, we make him king.
Hold him up.
Hold up the shreds of his garments.
We feel so stupid now.

We didn’t know he was God
until we saw him bleed.
And now we make each other bleed.
We say, you are not god.
That is not god lying dead in the street.
That was not god begging for his life.
How do you know?

How do you know he won’t
come back with black skin
wearing a hoodie or just,
you know, walking through
your neighborhood on a
beautiful day?
How do you know three days from now you won’t
remember his face?

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i am in love with my skeleton

wpid-sketch7122109.pngi am in love with my skeleton
my ribs when i can feel them
hard under the skin.

i am in love with my skeleton
all these finite bones
a clattering of dust
on its way to the bin.

i am in love with my skeleton
the femur like a bat
a weapon clothed in flesh.

i am in love with my skeleton
in motion and at rest
heavy in the bed.

i am in love with my skeleton
the ball and socket joints
the hinges and the fusion
of young bones grown old.

i am in love with my skeleton
hollow with breath
the pelvic bowl cradling
this primordial ache.

i am in love with my skeleton
when a hand (mine or yours)
rests on my ribs and paces
searchingly to the hip and back again.

i am in love with my skeleton
smooth and bare as can be
a hundred years from now
dry and sun bleached.

i am in love with my skeleton
this clanky home rattling along
and creaking up the stairs.

I am in love with my skeleton
even when the pain is great
even with the sharpness
of death that starts on the inside.

i am in love with my skeleton
this blank-faced doll
when she is put to rest
by the sweet child god
whose playtime has ended.


I’m digging up a bunch of old poems, including an entire collection I wrote about two years ago and re-thinking how to present them for sharing. Brace yourself for random poetry attacks.

I also want to redesign this site, but I’m lazy as fuck when it comes to web design, so I make no promises.

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Whenever you go away, I get homesick.


Whenever you go away, I get homesick.
There are telling little mistakes in my handwriting.
I’m not here.
I try to be alone with the birds.
I take a bath, go outside, and think about how the air feels.
And the sun.
I seek sensations instead of memories.
Memory is never the delight it promises to be.
Crunching dry leaves in my fingers, I feel like I belong on earth,
but catching myself, I become self-conscious.
I make a weird kind of sense
in your context.
Even with the bullshit.
The things couples hide:
the expert fights,
the surgical strikes that make a late-night wasteland of our kitchen
when the pilots are drunk and grieving.
I know that kitchen — I know
what I will be feeling when we stand close together or far apart.
I’m comfortable with my rage and my fear.
I have always been afraid of the same things,
and one of them is love.

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What I’m Reading: Ada by Gertrude Stein


by Gertrude Stein

Purchased at Third Eye Comics in Annapolis, MD.

I don’t want to ruin it by trying to tell you about it.

I think it’s about finding a way to love and be happy. The writing is hypnotic, and Stein’s sparse language points out just how much we don’t have to say. Every time a character says nothing, they say everything.


The artwork throughout is beautiful, but I want you to see that for yourself.


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