Movement Ending with Arms

Nettles could replace the cabbage, the salt and saffron milk-caps halved and cut with stock, water, proportions intuited and spun wetly over flame. My infant grandmother satcheled to the left hip, warmed into consuming sleep while soup thickens kitchen air. Cities are fled: Moscow and Vyazma, my grandmother in the same satchel spirited to Bryansk,… More

A Style of Living

What about the dew- sodden morning, eyes open to the already turning earth? Or batter blinking in the pan? Because today we have nowhere to be. These movements are true. They’re made by hands toward a deer in the whistle grass. It is somewhere within arms reach and there’s no way to know in which… More


My guide and I first purified before the sacrifice, but can you be purified I asked her without being eliminated or erased? My guide said it’s always but with you, why can’t you just archive the whiteness or curate the liquidity of the city and play your music or whatever you do? Here, she said,… More


Whitman heard the “bustle of growing wheat” [I believe him] as he loafed in the grass in Camden, one ear to the earth enormous with corpses and vascular tissue, hairy roots of cabbages, horseshit enriching the Great Experiment – the other ear heard the “orbic flex” of a tenor and the soprano and ghosts ravishing… More

The MRI Machine Sounds like a Hummingbird

A softer sound than the crude x-ray chirp of a sparrow or blue-bellied finch. Violet crowned, I can never not hunger for things less tethered to earth. It is through speed and lightness that time slows. Beyond that red-billed rhythm, I imagine your inner weather is nothing but wind, an irregular albino sighted against a… More

Townie Elegy

If I told you bagging groceries to pay for community college tuition and a gym membership made me feel some kind of glamorous it would be mostly honest and mostly, as I was then, ignorant of any real responsibility outside of anthropology text books and the push/pull full-body lift split I’d adopted from a thick… More


Thine eyes rain down from heaven. –Siouxsie Sioux   I am so exhausted of this particular nightmare imagination that I can’t even feel it anymore, which is to say I am exhausted of feeling, and of the feeling of exhaustion too, And when I look now upon the emptied sound of my voice, When I… More