The first time I meet my psychiatrist, / he asks if we’ve met before. / This does not bode well.
The doughnut shop isn’t up to code; / danger makes a delicious dish. / Here, hello is flash-fried catfish.
My grandfather's jaw is locked / into the smoothness of my chin / a mechanism that helps me chew / the fat at Christmas
I need to write something. It needs to be 500 words. It needs to be posted today. At first, I was going to post a poem because I have lots of poems stored in the archives, but then I decided that would be cheating. So, here we are at the edge of burnout. This week marks one year in quarantine. One year of sitting in my bedroom, day after day: wake up, walk the dog, work, eat, work, walk the dog, work, walk the dog, eat, scroll, sleep. Intersperse that with some major dissociative episodes kicked off by mindlessly checking social media, and you’ll have a good idea of what this pandemic has looked like for me. It’s probably been the same for you, too. Or maybe you’re one of those people who had the personal strength to get super into CrossFit and cut carbs out of your diet for good. If you are one of those people, good for you. I am not.
Pen clicks mark time / in a unit where no gets / to leave.
As so many of you may well know, there is a lot to be said about Yelp reviews. The best thing to say about them, of course, is how useless they are; however, from time to time, they are poetic. I took a recent post and snipped it apart and sewed it back together. Please, enjoy this poem, unlike someone's sandwich.
I've been working on some really big projects these last few months, which means less time for writing smaller pieces like short stories and poems. I've begun to rummage around the treasure trove of old poems, and I'm not horrified. There's a lot of feeling here, but at least it's true. Please, enjoy this piece and be on the look out for some really big news here soon.
I'm thinking about crawfish / and the way they boil brackish / in the high heat of June, seasoned / spicy in a galvanized washtub
restless road rage knots you in asphalt ribbons / tied to sunset suicides--glass shards bleed out / into the next life full of broken blue birds; / trauma begets trauma, inescapable.
My littlest sister braids her Barbie’s hair / in the middle of her room, and brings up / some cogent questions: I understand / the sun will burn out, but I need to know / what’ll happen to our vampires.