Aged eight, I discovered the dun-colored bedclothes stuck to me, my back, when, tired and wince-eyed, I woke. Sheets peeled away, in stitches
over scapulae was a moss of scabby fabric; brown pills, clots of cotton commingled with my own red cells, the result like crooked stripes of caked
mud. I’d fallen out of the . . . → Read More: Belial
I. You got your first tattoo when you were twelve. Thirty days back from the hospital, your best friend Jack, son of a three-strike con, did the work for you. He had the know how; made the ink from toothpaste, newspaper ash, and the rainbow runoff of a busted Vis-a-Vis marker set. The outline hurt . . . → Read More: Husk
I forget now who ended it or why, but I don’t have that tattoo anymore and my hair is cut short.
I eat soup and salad only, go running twice every day.
I think she knew I never wrote poems, but I wanted to.
When my thoughts collapse, I can still feel your breath and small fingers, practicing power chords on the tendon frets of my forearm. What was blue for me turned red for you. I promise that my first tattoo will be a polychrome apology.
Everything’s gone too far and everything’s gone too fast. And by the . . . → Read More: Altered
You pointedly turn your head left and so do I; walking towards each other, past.
Your hair is a different cut now. My skin is tanned caramel for a change. We both have new tattoos.
My pant cuffs drag on the tiles and planks collecting dust. Your breasts are parted by the crinoline strap of . . . → Read More: Negating Intimacy