zinc words & images

  • Simple Song

    keep me close, write my name along the inside of your finger. swear we’re the same, sentiments you wrap in paper.   leave the smoke, leave the style. capture now and return to yes. flee the room, use your guile, soft and spare, the reasons why.   make me warm. be last to leave when…

  • Thankful wash

    We spill our bodies, breathless, into the beat Of the ocean. Choral salt. Land tapers. You can only regret what your hands Haven’t touched. But now that’s not true. Birds fly, a long stroke over the white line, Receding and returning. My hand cuts the water, But really I’m reaching for the world, Its birth.…

  • Chivalry

    Make the race long, past the point of no return. Cannons and ramparts, weaponized playthings read the dirt for signs of God, of father. We joust with words, carved in the air and spinning out towards our posterity. Counting wooden nickels, the wooden women, the knives on the table, recognition is for the dead, You…

  • 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.

  • Physical impassibility

    What bones are these? Typing, hanging between gravity’s decisions. Metaphors hardly capture the way my capillaries dance, imprecisely reasoning whether one can see both sides of a coin. Philosophically, a coin only has one side, the side that is visible. My body and its cells, want the solution to be existence on all plains, though,…

  • Crows Have the Longest Memories

    Crows are black. The dusk envelopes and I feel feathers pass my head. You are leaving and through the window, I watch wingbeats above your car. Heavenly ripple, at night, the crows wait for your absence. When they call to me, I hear the geometry of space, a sky of four corners. I believe they…