Sunday, December 07, 2025

turquoise

 



words written in the street

 

on the sides

where the garbage collects

and all of them stained with salt

 

distant

like the voices of ghosts

or faint like the sun in february

and what she says is that she

doesn't want to fight anymore

 

where we are is the fraying edge

of someone else's city

 

seventy miles an hour and

the prayers that wrap around us like

rusty wire

 

the houses that have burned

and the ones

that are dying slowly

 

the fields where nothing grows

 

where christ is just a rumor

and the crows are all starving and

what she says is that she

thinks we're lost

 

what she says is that

the pills aren't working

 

and i take her hand and

think about what happens next


Sunday, November 23, 2025

Tuesday, October 07, 2025

the dead kids all know that hatred is an artform


So close.

It's actually a themed collection,

which I almost never do.

Still available for any publisher

who understands what the

future will look like.