zinc words & images

  • Defrock

    In May tulips splay, rendering their carbon undone. Petals, a visual cacaphony on the ground. Me, believing myself a spiral running into the soil, an archimedes screw that overturns soil and buries joy. I wield my scissors, clipping decay from its stem and falling to the ground.

  • Ossify

    Bones grind to high heaven like an unholy ferris wheel and I am caught, a piece of fabric, frayed and flapping against the wind. A prayer of quiet in the joints and knuckles that are white-hot with their crackling. They talk to me and speak of the limestone and dirt from which I am made,…

  • Sundays

    We come to our work-week Washed, wrung-out, Spent like soap, laying In a pool of its own Disintegration.

  • Eonic Botanic

    Sunflowers turn their head slowly, as if August’s heat has given them a life much slower than time. This seems right- they are backyard watchmen, peering over my neighbors fence and greeting the surly dogs that live to the south. Making believe that they are simple flowers and that their agenda is not to outlast…

  • On rotation

    Things that keep me writing and thinking about writing this week. This song has been out for a while but I keep coming back to it. Less for the specific lyrics, though the writing is fantastic, and more for the way the rhythm reinforces the sadness of Bahamas’ voice. When the female chorus reaches that…

  • Untitled

    We devour our young by saying their name. Written, embroidered, propelled Into a universe of scavengers. Devour with a nod, a pat on the back. Eat amongst the smiling thousands, Who cluck with shame and lick their teeth.

  • Break ups

    Believe it or don’t, but It may be over. The distance Between sighs is palpable And now I don’t know your hair color Or your thoughts on Natasha Lyonne’s new show. The strained Messages remind me Of deep caves that never Return sound to their messenger. If I am forlorn it may be because Sound…

  • End is nigh

    Wash me in ash culled from the river, The place where the burned trees gather. Hunt for the sun as it sets a bloody curtain Over the horizon. Grasp me fiercely As if I am careening toward the world’s Gaping maw. Make believe that tomorrow exists.

  • Lookout Points

    We have tall trees. The sort that seems to have raised themselves From a story,  rather than a seed. From the north they look Like spindly teeth ready to eat The sky. Along their roots, We mapped the spine of our land, Coming to conclude that Moss is a language rather than A cartographer’s mark.…

  • Babes

    Feet touch flat, The thin layer of atoms That never allows you To touch the earth.