Ignited eyes in candlelight,
For swallowed knives;
Vulture of my immortal
Beyond the breathy pane
Its wings betray
The coming rain.
Can’t you hear its squall
Over Stella and bar talk?
The resonance of hell
Undulating over sidewalk.
Sentimentality for sentimentality’s sake is something I try to avoid. I think it’s cheap in an age where so much top-down modernity feels jarring and out of our control, which makes nostalgia at once seductive and sleazy. Dissolving oneself into the past is not a tenable way to cope with…
I toss a napkin into the trash, the one
I used to dry my hands,
Barely damp and utterly clean —
Then suddenly, in my vision gleams
The true and only jewel
Beveled smooth by gravity’s pull.
I turn it in my fingers —
Corroded patina. O herald
Of hopelessness, commence this coil!
Blue petals and crude oil;
The pungent narcissus
In the dirt of my brain. I am not afraid
Of death but reckoning, shame.
In police school, I’ve heard, trainees
must be shot with the white-hot
tongue of a taser, just to taste it;
every muscle consumed
by electric teeth, only to be spit back out whole.
exorcism of the soul — which is to say, medicinal.
A far cry from the crater in my brain
that you left like a comet-tailed stroke.
Grief is hot and burns slow.
I eat my dinner that tastes like my day
to chew my sadness and swallow,
and try to catch fire tomorrow.
One day, my boyfriend’s mom discovered she had a Twitter account. She’d never used it. She hadn’t create it. Yet there it was, unquestionably hers. If you had Googled her name, it would’ve shown up right at the top of your search results. …
To be sure, I write this in an emotional hangover from listening to “The Greatest” on endless loop, the definitive track on Lana Del Rey’s new album and “obituary for America,” Norman Fucking Rockwell! Nostalgia is a hard theme to pull off without seeming hackneyed. After all, our culture is…
Is it the smoke on my tongue
Or the smell of you (heavy, gone)
That draws me to the window,
And with gaping chest I swallow
Sharp, dark air
To clear away the taste
And fill these hollow lungs.
I am learning how to lose
And how to wander fading halls—
My night ghost finds you stirring,
And wet in your eyes, wide
With the terror of seeing death,
Is the flicker of a nightlight
Sleeping beside you in your bed.
I consigned myself to teeter
On this high and rocky cliff which
Separates the souls below
Into slayers or the slain.
Decision brought me here,
So how I wish to fall
And be carried by the wind.
Imagine a future in which your Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook feeds are so polluted with content by corporate interests that it’s nearly impossible to excavate the posts by your friends and family: the real people with whom we were promised social media would make it easier to “stay connected.”