Dry brown blood
Buried under bleached sheets
The harrowed sighs
Of suicides
Hover in rafters
At the Flamingo, Luxor,
Ersatz Versailles
Necrotic aerobiome
A cold
Our social circles had overlapped for more than a decade. To everyone here, I was first an old acquaintance, a fixed figure of their long past. Not the person I was today.
I showed up at a bar that served free meatballs in a red slip I bought at my local Chinese dollar store, hoping to get high on a charmed stranger.
I'll say the metformin must be working. You'll tell me to message my doctor, ask about upping the dose.
I feel a change coming on. I want to travel more. I want to visit Vietnam, and Transylvania; I want to watch the sun go down along the Nile.
Murray would be my only American-born super. He was big and fat and had a very productive-sounding cough and he always dressed in the same dirty white T-shirt and the same baggy corduroy pants whenever I saw him—summer, winter, spring and fall.
Meaghan Garvey knows well the hypnotic power the road holds for introspection as well as the inherent humanity one can find among the regulars at those solitary dive bars.
ration the rest of the smoke, / spend hours tracing maps / to find the pub marquee
There is a rooster tail of snow and ice behind it, and the roar of the engine enters my chest before he reaches me.
But there, hand gripping faucet / It spoke in a language held only in the body
Käärijä doesn’t win Eurovision. We both know this and don’t. Instead, the album brings us to a body broken and weary. Käärijä is willing to do anything, joints displacing themselves to the beat.
I am motion-sick with / a divination-death glimpse / of a carnival Earth
"My wife and I are looking for a third partner. I was thinking, maybe…" — here he gave a small cough, his speech turning slurred and hard to follow.
This was only a few months after I lost my husband, and much of that time is a blur. I still felt as if there was something between me and the world. In some lights it was a window, in others a mirror.
Fearless, sweet boy, / your courage is not lost. / I am uncontainable / by nature too.
good afternoon, passengers. this is your captain speaking. first of all, i would like to welcome everyone to my midlife crisis.
Every time I write it comes out far too dramatic. Everything feels so insidious right now. Everything feels so precarious right now. Everything has fallen into place.
The knife turns, but blood in your teeth isn't poetic, even when I almost enjoy it
Then, my ex decided that they had to move to New York to build community around doing shrooms, eating olives, and working for NYC Health
He’s dreaming. I can touch him softly when he sleeps. I can watch his body heave and rest. We need this.
I quit writing all the time and then I get a job and I can pretend for about a year. But then the words have built up in my head, and I start to think, “Ok, I can be homeless and it won’t be that big of a deal because I can write in libraries
I felt the snap. A fool outrunning the weather, only to find out I was still too much.
I understand.
Really, I do. I've heard enough compliments to recognize the attraction I carry behind me. I can see why you needed to reach out and grab hold, like a mirage that might disappear as I
