There are no more ways to feed me.

I wrote you the most beautiful bowl of fruit;

but my words were twisted up in

the flames of your

blue-lip fire:

nodding its heads under

their bodies.


Don’t cry.

We are made up of the same piece of sky.

And I can’t leave, you can’t leave,

we’ve tried; and

we’ve tried to mix up our miseries

and we can’t even do that right.

I will look for you

in the crowd of my personalities.

Hold me, hold us, hold, don’t stop.

You are the vast ocean, but I’m every drop.

Swallowing your anger

is an empty pill that

makes me hungry.


I spilled ink on the floor, damn it,

and left it there for a year.

I would look lovingly at it

every so often,

and it would look lovingly back;

perhaps we’d have tea.

But then one day,

one black, anxious day,

I thought I should clean it


“It is better to be in my towels,”

I said.  “Better to rumble through

my washing machine.

Better to get in between my fingers

and in my hair.”

And yes,

it did like being there.

Even I didn’t mind it for a while,

looking in the mirror and pretending

I was something great,

my ink stains living through

bath waters and sprinkler systems.

The turning point is always feeling trapped,

the day I realized I could not get them off,

could not clear my skin of their

ethereal concoctions,

could not wash their beleagured soot

out of my scalp,

without cutting off my own


buenas noches

he spits out,

“you fucking suck!”


he slams the door.

and     you    wonder     if     maybe     it      is     true,

since you don’t

feel much like




I think we have had enough of ourselves

dashing about and posing in sweet entropy.

You were the Ace of Cups

sitting there at the end like a period,

or a new sentence,

or a death sentence.

I have exhausted my organs

in vitriolic distinctions and

ancient markings.

My body is writ with your pictures

like the valleys of Nazca,

you have carved me

with your hummingbird,

your albatross,

your spaceman,

and I am staring at the blood

running down my hands

and arms

and legs

in wonder

at our gasps and entreaties and


Just war with me, won’t you?

I beg you to plot against me.

Position your pieces and topple me,

because once you rid yourself of the


you will be victorious.

Don’t deny me.

Just give me this one favor;

attack, and rip, and chew, and kill.

Otherwise all my fancies

fly away like Icarus

to drown.


Even as I
trance-like and immobile,
on soft cushions of
nefarious delight:
I wish it had been you who wrote me into existence.
I wish you’d formed my limbs with your silver-tongued essence.
I wish you had created my mind with your own.
I wish that you had written me, so I could feel known.