Jackson

In my dream there weren’t sixteen / lightly birded hedged picketed lines / There was only the edge of everything / The silicon lip of the precipice and you // on it / with your eyes / like the ice that’s about to melt … Read more

at 10am among the branches some crows gather for poetry Read more

that wasn’t my bell it was his, it was his, his bell, his smell, his line, his tab of acid, his line of cocaine, coke, his coke, his glass of coffee, his exquisite corpse, his sick meta-writing, it wasn’t mine, it was his, his, it was never mine, Nevermind, all those boys, chanting, all those… Read more

“Tourist Trap”, a photomontage by Thomas Barbèy the asphalt street takes women children hats trams fences down between the buttresses of a rainforest grandmother tree with thick spreading arms Dali signs the brain of the artist who Photoshops so I can see the entrance in game worlds with laws of physics set by a programmer… Read more

We say I’m made of atoms. When we say I it means my body, brain breasts belly legs feet. When we say atom it means some neutrons and protons and a vast space with a few bits in it. To get a sense of the vastness, focus on the nucleus. Why must my awareness be… Read more

Unlike you, kid, she says, he never did anything — just kicked balls and chased rabbits At 12 I watched him, 15, tossing hay off the flatbed — tanned deltoids, torn singlet, low-slung jeans, calling to the cows I never got to touch his dull white scars or hear his baby cry His was the… Read more