brand name packing tape

just trying to

return a fucking package but

I bet

the storm still wakes you and

your feet

on the carpet echo

always, always dirt

and broken pottery

to cut your heels on


the statue did have a curse

when you brought it home

from the thrift store


capital letters

where taste buds once were

purple slime

on the pavement

if you’ve ever wanted to know

what a broken lava lamp looks like

because of me!

failing again

to know what I need

to know what you need

tracking numbers

taste like rotten echeveria

your books

will be there by Friday

teengirl fantasea


is the season for dripping fruit from open eyes.

stale sweat mixed with the fresh stuff

in a cyclone of ripe summer

makes me think of

slicing up your calves and eating them

for the iron.

we were

tripping with multicolored birds


cannot for my life remember what we did with our bikes.

boiler room streaming


watermelon trying

to keep the party going but

no one wants to do poppers right now.

apple core

fast on the bus as far as we can go.

everything is green

and wet

with little snails on your eyelashes,


and tongue.

tastes like the day I drove

with the windows down

not knowing a year would bring

dirty skies

and glasses left on the bedside table.

but now the mattress is on the floor

and made of volcanic rock,

always shifting.

it was afternoon, and I

saw your thighs bleeding in the living room,

closed the door,

and turned my car the wrong direction

down a one-way street.