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sandpaper

I hate how the burn of boardwalk wood sears the bottom of my foot, tinting it this awful, raw red. I hate how sand sediment sticks to skin, kissing the strip of unshaved hair on the back of my calf. I hate how my stomach rolls against my one-piece swimsuit, the outline of my bellybutton bulging past my breasts, which sweat under sun. In fact, every part of me feels wet with sweat, soaking the hair hidden under bikini lining, folded beneath my arm and falling from my scalp. The salty sea breeze cuts through it all, thinning it down to pickled straw, mockingly dancing with its dead, withered body. My fate is peppered with pimples, pulsating pours stained by the spray of the Atlantic. I feel the fair skin of my back burn the same raw red as the souls of my feet, soaking under seafoam. This raw red will spread the length of my spine, curling around both arms and legs, before settling just above the heart in the form of fingers squeezing and clawing at the skin until it starts to peel and pucker, puss pushing through each fold of flesh until there’s nothing left to do but let the sea lap at your body, drag you off the shore, and shove you to the bottom. Then, twelve thousand feet underwater, I choke on my own vanity.

By Generation

Her only cocktail dress flutters in the wind. She wore it for this very occasion. The sun silhouettes the sickly trees, creating an illusion of beauty in death. Will those leaves grow back?Who knows. Smaller fingers grip her right hand. Her left waves at the receding shoreline. A dot in the distance. Goodbye. The men on that boat certainly cannot see her, but she can see their wake. She doesn’t know if it's the last she’ll ever see of them. She’s losing his face already. Is that possible? How is that possible?

"Waiting Room" by Fugazi

 Yeah, I'm a patient boy, but it's not like I have many options. I doze off in the backseat as Mom merges onto the highway, waking up twenty minutes later to one of those evangelical billboards. You've probably seen them somewhere: red letters on a piss-yellow background, Forgive My Sins Jesus Save My Soul. My post-nap bleariness blurs out the lettering till our car gets right under it. I read it all. Now, soul-saving has got to be a new level of patience. Cradle to grave. Let's just say I'm still working up to it. But now, in the car, in the world, is a better time than any. 

my hometown is a parking lot

we plant seeds in the cracks of the asphalt

Branches

                      i find her between the pine needles

Figgy's First Day

Epigrams for Runnemede Field

I'd say someone stole the bases, but "stole" gives them too much presence. No, they were Lot's-wifed, atomic-flashed, poofed. No holes in the infield, no white indents. I trotted through the vacant dirt without looking down. 

if my mother never left

if my mother never left India, 

There Are Monsters in the Closet

 Maggie’s grandmother used to quilt. Patch after patch, she would stitch together colorful squares and harsh floral and paisley patterns until they formed silhouettes of Jesus and Mary or a massive cross. She mainly made these Christian-patterned quilts for family and people at her church. Every birthday party, Christmas dinner or Easter service was marked by Maggie’s grandmother bringing an armful of quilts for people to take home. It was always a big hit. 

collector

if i close my eyes maybe 

intertwined

Dedicated to David Selves, aged 12, who died off Woolich supporting his drowning playfellow and sank with him clasped in his arms on September 12th, 1896.

wishing on feathered stars

the wind, brash against my ears, is filled with 

What We Have Lost

a casual affair,

The Author is Dead

The author has been murdered.

Must Be the Wind

01/02/2023

A Letter to my Future Child in the USA

The day you take your first steps, 

my heart bears me

the heart bears me

Through the Looking Glass

The voices of the night blend together to form a chaotic symphony. Cars rumble through the streets, a rhythmic beating that ebbs and flows through the city. People talking, laughing, crying. Their voices intermingled to form a loving harmony resounding with the human spirit. Nature adds its voice to the melody, the chirping birds and scurrying squirrels filling the empty spaces in the measure. And atop the beautiful orchestra sit flashing lights and neon signs, their glow illuminating the world under the watchful eye of the moon above. 

the duality of a doorframe

a doorframe is equal parts

Control

 In April