zinc words & images

  • 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,…

  • Where We Went

    Unwrap your teenage heart Like a chocolate dream. I miss the self that sings, the one that wraps string around her finger and waves. Lightening steps and electric belief was what we wanted and could never get. Not enough to satisfy. Rather, we became maudlin. Watched rises, stretches, untouched heartache, unmounted tenderness and lamented the…

  • Poem Up at High Shelf Press

    My poem, A Night’s Movement, is up at High Shelf Press. Find me alongside some really amazing artists and writers here.

  • 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…

  • Cracking

    Feeble mauve against the sky. Are we carrion, blistered and bleached? Craters ablast shale flayed from mountains and piled against the moon’s reflection. We were not here among the sheaves of paper, the mounded dirt. I think this, the wretched beginning, was when I could see sand, a mote impaling the air. Dissipation, chemical disposal…