The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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against the shed, my bike leans, rusting. i pick off my legs a handful of sand spurs. i save them in a jar. i save everything that cuts me, from paper to
When the Editor Asks if the Suicidal Ideation is a Persona in his rejection email I appreciate it honestlyI do but I wish he was right that that endless tunnel was just
Child of my body, you are from me. I gave birth to you. Yet you are from another time,another place. My mother died when I was a toddler. My father remarried and
it’s not the child
One empties and fills; the other trickles. Both keep me afloat.
But I am the kind of man who’s abandoned his father. How easy, my tongue. Not me. Never. No. I tell myselfI am not the kind of man who’d abandon his child.
at Lake Lugano, Switzerland You sit between eachwave rocking this stone worldlike a cradle. The peaks & troughs of me,my life, delight to beholdall that you offer. When you gently close a
War exists in beautiful places.In the arms of a galaxy, symbiotic stars swallow each otherand in the shallows of a reef, a four-armed sea star spreadsover a shell like a chromosome. Scarred,
not the Titan, but my home built without a bomb shelter,and built to house bombs. Explosions—unlike implosions—happen over the course of felt moments. Skirts are blown upwardas Trinitrotoluene flushes cheeks yellow. Gravel
I’m pretty sure I got the job at Midnight Express because I didn’t ask if it was illegal. I wasn’t background checked, as far as I know. I didn’t sign any non-disclosure