55

My fingers are shining in the underwater afterlife of memory searching for the nipple-sized mollusks searching for the solid nature of things left over from having lived a life at all That new rain smell, specifically I remember that,

The world is having an off day. The sun is now lavender in color, soft on the eyes, and we stare at the new sun all day without ill effect.

I scratch a red welt onto the inside of my white knee. The knee itches like crazy. Pain too, down to my bones. The Congo calls.

the Griot Grrrls stopped playing their distinctive brand of power progressive acoustic worldfunk at open-mics around campus

Enough, Trump.We've had it my dear, with your pink ties, your hairs, your swagger, towers, your plenty of monies,your tempers, your honeys. I don't speak for all, not at all, but for many who never did like your style or bile, your tenacious temerity,…

I'm not sure if this is breaking the rules of Fictionaut, but here's a trailer of a poetry tour of Europe I did earlier this year. We hope to break it down into webisodes soon enough to highlight the brilliant readings, brilliant local poets and such that you can find not…

I ain’t your kissing cousin That’s pretty plain to see Baby, keep your pretty lips Far away from me I ain’t your kissing cousin That’s pretty plain to see You’re really very pretty Come kiss me and we’ll see We don’t live in a barnyard

Toxins make a body happy/ as if acceleration toward// an end of consciousness/ is its own reward.

I’m supposed to be writing poems but it’s Saturday morning and I’m watching cartoons.

It turns out I know a thing or two about momentum. I know, I know. Like the crescendo of your bicycle wheels. Like the force the florist put on the stems the day Linda died. The way my fingers spin between planetary mass. This is how I know I’m not real

That's demeaning enough, but not as hard to take as the customers. They're all jaded hipsters, thumb diddling smartphone freaks, pretending their online interactions actually count as relationships and that “tweets” are real conversations. It's sad, reall

Some nights you really feel it.

I'd laugh, cry, splutter with confusion or outrage. I'd probably say “Duh” a lot, grow pale, flush, and wink at the viewers. I'd furrow my eyebrows, raise one or both, and my eyes would narrow, widen,…

It was always your body that told so much -- lips working some secret out