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A clandestine participation through a soundless beauty.

Art is a way for the mind to master the body, even if it is not one’s own.

she thrust to where her gut bucked acid & gave out a taurine heave

I lean I stumble toward you hoping you’ve not turned away yet.

I’m tired of the song the rain sings in June, the chorus of hope.

Maybe it’s a Thursday, & I’m coming home to make you dinner.

Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.

Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.

A real or imagined boundary, crossed. End of the line. Lined out.

“Tell me about the things you can’t tell me about when I’m dressed.”

All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.

money gotten by blood tends to stay in the blood, which has no race.

She looks at them through eyes flattened by a confused life.

The purple-eyed women on her mom’s side began generations ago.

How did the light take forty years to work its way across that room.

I used to be known for the humor of my music, the lightness of touch.

Every life is an imperfect continuation of another.

A heart takes precautions, withholds warmth, but it’s mistaken.

My first suicidal ideations occurred to me when I was ten, eleven, twelve.

As soon as her grandparents left, BLAM, the dance in her died.

Here I am, king of the gods, making a fool of myself just to get under your gown.

Better to be a bird without altitude. Or to get out of the game early.

I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.

Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.

All down my street the new fathers beat the kingness out of the kings.

Her sly smile was a vicious remnant of her life before Real Life began.

All I know is not in front of me, my sweet angels.

I played a game I called ocean, resisted my need for air.

For a moment I had the delicious feeling of fitting in without even trying.

She had learned that it was easy to get Sylvi to do things.