(I hide behind nonsensical things and declare you a loser if you do not "understand," OR, In Which I Impersonate A Hipster)

stung was a stinging.
baklava shaved legs your mother's armpits.
poop sex feminism.

(fracture)

and you bit me,
and blood ran, and you demanded
I make a choice

(shake)

This world has got
the best of me. Seems like time
for Tennessee.

(meditation: feeling mind)*

Oh, look. Here's fear.
Here's that swampy hollowness in the heart.
That's the way grief feels.


*with thanks and attributions owed to Sally Kempton

(unless and until)

you are my
harmonica. I play you over
chances of rain

(love poems #3)

You come running.
The Silver Jews are so fucking good.
I don't feel lost, any more.

(Thomas Jefferson)

with this pen I sign
signatures in stolen ink
your face blacked out

(and memory is such that I can no longer remember)

he is no longer
nominated. I was, though I was 12, though
I might have rigged the ballot