1. Day 1

    banged up


    This is a man who should have known better.


    - W. Todd Kaneko


    A mixture of blood, cum, and tears that never mix.

    I still find your hairs in my things,

    almost invisible, like my belongings are one giant marionette.

    I threaded one through my hands,

    its creeping slide about to pounce

    and draw the blood from me

    because my teeth yelled too loudly

    because it was the wrong thing to say.

    (The right thing to say is always quiet.)

    Never mind your wet daggers

    slipping between my ribs like I’m some sort of whore.

    If I clucked my tongue, a fault would form

    and mark the ground, earth cave right here.

    I respond with my wet daggers.

    I know I had the choice to not come

    and didn’t, but I still did

    to acquiesce your wanton yawp

    so desperately thrown into the air.

    Bent legs, highlight marks the place

    where I remember the cum,

    not a slow ooze but a light drip

    like morning coffee mouth marks residue running down the side

    of the cup. It overflows.

    and I wish for it badly, its elastic stretching

    but never breaking. Then comes finally

    the clear acrylic of our sinuses, a plaid chair

    sitting daintily among Warhols. s means plural,

    and p is a beg, while f becomes something more than

    what it was. something bad, morphing before my eyes

    which have no windshield to cover the onslaught

    of the last liquid I ever hoped would grace my globes.

    the tears of someone who should have fortified himself more properly.


  2. Paperback Sale


    This line of romance trades

    is soldiers at war

    in precise procession

    waiting for the highest bidder

    because who cares about who lives or dies

    when freedom is an undiscovered archipelago

    that no war boat will ever reach.


  3. A Love Poem

    Transparent, no, translucent,
    no, light itself
    pouring backwards from you
    the thing with which Descartes was so infatuated;
    form and function to br
    eak my notions,
    like everything I think about myself
    doesn’t matter.
    Lines sprout from your eyes and light and head
    and in a convocation of contours they form you
    but are not you
    since you are more than the sum
    stellar cosmos stars diamonds ether
    swirling in your cosmogenic irises,
    you contain burst greatness
    like standing on the edge of a canyonic eternity


  4. Ten Suns

    At first, I thought you were lukewarm tea,
    a plastic knife, antique toys, maybe.
    But now I know you are the lonely crow,
    the spared from celestial archery.


  5. Old

    Limber dollies file past me, carrying the contents of my past.
    Holding boxes of socks with holes in the heels
    and forgotten or pawned-off video game systems
    and all I can do is watch as miles of memories
    hopelessly rush toward some vague oblivion.
    All of my friends are carted away
    and all of my possessions grow dusty.
    I feel older than my learner’s permit says,
    but maybe I’m inherently a flaw,
    an aged mechanical figure too rusted for today.


  6. Hands

    Fragile like white ink,
    skin pointillism spreading,
    raised by your now touch.


  7. Day 30

    First Helpings

    (credit to Second Helpings by John Brehm)


    I take off my brain from my sock,

    or rather one sock, since

    it’s in mint condition.

    Sometimes when I distance my feet

    to insult, the smooth corners

    permanently adhere,

    like a cup that rose and repaired itself

    apart from never being told

    to not let go.


  8. Day 29

    In a Bathroom in Times Square


    I saw a pale pair, father and son.

    They spoke some ostensible European dialect;

    Dutch perhaps, the father saying to his little boy,

    "Vergeet niet je handen te wassen."

    Right outside Times Square,

    where I pondered all the tongues burbling about:

    an excited “Mettiamoci una foto qui!” from a family

    or a businessman on the phone asking, “Wo ist die Sitzung wieder?”

    or maybe a tethered “再見” from the nut lips of an immigrant.


  9. Day 28



    My roommate’s drying t-shirt is suspended from the underside of his bed.

    It is a shade of atomic tangerine.

    Much like the alerting orange of a lifejacket.

    The time we ate carrots we had grown from our small backyard garden.

    Earthy like a vegan café’s vermillion paprika on an apricot sandwich eaten while playing Pokémon.

    The meridian of a decision painted in lines like a warning sign

    or tea roots growing in ochre clay pots.

    The first time I went trick-or-treating.

    The peach trees hanging over the street I grew up on as I returned for Thanksgiving dinner.


  10. Day 27

    A Stitch In


    In a dream where I’m sleeping,

    trouble seems to come in waves,

    each time for a different reason,

    like digging up a time capsule full of spiders.

    I’m glad I unearthed it though,

    because now I can sleep,

    the simple gussets of my grey Nike t-shirt

    flexing from the simple stretching of the visceral ligaments,

    all because I found something that was lost

    like a one-eyed milkman finding the right house.