Vision

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

Winnowing

In winter, she comes to visit. Following me around the house, asking questions with your mouth. She rests your chin on my head. After I’ve said goodnight, she roots around for you, digging for lost Christmas ornaments, state fair plush toys, faded Polaroids of us at Mammoth Cave, you at Cedar Point. She ferrets out… More

who spoke from then on

count the times the police appeared in my living room, barged in and bobbed like jellyfish on the tangible resentment of my mother       the sea of her        crashing on herself       my mother of get in their faces and tell them where to go assault on an officer      broke her       delicate wrist      said it caused arrest in… More

on learning I have ESP concerning an old crush

First little reelings of knowing outer space is inner— bad sci-fi movie where humans are fleas, or motes of shadow in the amoeba’s eye(lessness).    I am fairly functional   for a spirit walking around in a body. I don’t listen to messages, merely transcribe them, as though the mind is a sphere scraping other moving… More

I Didn’t Disappear

after Jim Harrison There is a god of small thunder in my chest, pounding commandments: whiskey, birds, women, feed the strays. His appetite grows as I watch Manitou twins or breakers in Grand Traverse. He reminds me blood is still red without air and Escanaba is a decent drive if you’ve been drinking. I listen… More

Retrouvailles

It’s as if the rain is falling up, the way lightning is the afterimage of where the light has been— see it rising? like the past or groundlessness or a groundless past, which isn’t to say untrue, for even though I’m stranded on a flooding highway, the sweet delirium of time unconstellated, however unsound, is… More

Right Now

Sure, I want to believe a poem can block a bullet too that a poem could save me at the end of the world, my bug-out bag teeming with “Good Bones.” My friend’s husband sells guns. He’s a republican. His sales boom under a democratic president, and sometimes he feels strange-weird about making money off… More