i am glad i have not lost you. you should know that i am about to peep inland empire. (ashamed i haven’t yet)

you are percussion
in a tunnel, a dozen
doves in a shoebox

MAC lipsticks

shy girl,
myth on hold.
pillow-talk.

feeling disconnected from many things.
keep having dreams about people i admire snubbing me
"she’s losing interest"

i think that’s my biggest fear. i need to start writing again

come home, let me make you
some dinner. it’s nearly july
and the lone fan hums
the song of consistency.
we know all of the words;
we pay all of the bills.
    it works.

when you need olive
all you’ve got is canola.
"blasphemy!" says the mother
thirteen towns away.

but we laugh at our substitutions.

maybe we’ll dream big
of the Mediterranean basin,
planning a month in Italy
over paper plates.
maybe you don’t know
that I don’t have a passport.

but how could I break it to you
over what’s left of this incredible
asparagus salad

we tie our towels around our waists
and curl our lips up good.
i am elvis you are elvis
mom’s face is in the sink
smiling at his big hips
my little hips
and i didn’t know that
hips
were                                                                                                                           hips
but mom laughed when I looked at her body in the shower
and said
“bananas.”

                                         ***

michael tumminnia shrugged, studying my nipple
under the only autonomous tree in the neighborhood—
the place where more backyards would meet for a monthly potluck
if only they could get over their legal binds of dimension
or just the fetish for fences.
on those common grounds i told michael that
beneath our under-shirts we were each other.
“see?”

michael tumminnia shrugged,
studying my                                                                                                               nipple.

Reflections on Antibiotics

We blow bubbles in the milk and think about
space. We don’t know much about space;
that’s why we think about it. There is an
eighty-four percent chance that if I told you that
that constellation right there, [ambiguous
gesture] that constellation riiiiiight there,
is the most undervalued constellation of all,
named Aufidius, isn’t it magnificent,
the Aufidius?,
you’d kiss me.

Ain’t that easy?

I napped to Bob Ross
and woke a rookie painter.

I took two Tylenol
and Tour-ed de France.

“Too much of a good thing is wonderful,”
said Liberace, our own American hero.

Why do u tag yr stuff as alt lit? U seem better than that

haha. yeah— i don’t think i write “alt lit”, but i don’t mind reaching out to that audience.