Resurrect my day and night, the fire of each star. — Kate Houck

oh, to be / that tongue / and palate, / those lips / surrounding you, / to be your / consonant / in a field of vowels. — Robert Okaji

Which of us stays at her guttural refrain for days, though our love was never so close to our hunger? What is love but a set of urges? Hold the nape of the neck just so—carry the pieces of the body just so— — Sara Henning

Winnowed, we are—the wind / in widdershins spin; the clock hiding / its souvenirs in a blue wound. — Jessica Goodfellow

I have all these memories, but I don’t know if they are of the life I had or the life I wanted.

I’m so nice to people these days, they have trouble understanding why they don’t like me.

We feed words to the air, not to each other.

But the newborn rabbits— / no, they were not so lucky. They didn’t live / for forty years like the crane does. They saw only / grass and a few flowers, maybe the sky / and a black vine moving quickly, a dark mouth. — Patricia Hooper

The dangerous poem is the one that maims, not the one that describes the maiming.

The people who tell you to forgive and forget? They’re the ones who stand to benefit from your doing so.

Apaths are an integral part of the sociopath’s arsenal and contribute to sociopathic abuse. Sociopaths have an uncanny knack of knowing who will assist them in bringing down the person they are targeting. It is not necessarily easy to identify an apath; in other circumstances, an apath can show ample empathy and concern for others—just not in this case. The one attribute an apath must have is a link to the target. — Addiction Today

Some people say I communicate exactly / like goose liver / force fed by / an invisible-handed economy — Robert Gano

At least when placentas clap their / hands while we all play / patty cake, / they are not foreshadowing / the sins / of generations that / do nothing else but / feast upon weakness. — Robert Gano

Too many people are writing about boring things.

No power without sociopathy.

Show me the figurative language in the office memo and I’ll show you the employee who’s shown the door for wasting that much time crafting an office memo.

The book of faces. The book of names. The book of facades. The book of shames. The book of fables. The book of famines. The book of sames. The book of lames. The book of dames. The book of games. The book of games. The book of games.

I am done saying too little. I’ve said too little for too long. I’ll probably say too much until I figure out how to not say too little without saying too much. (Even that sentence was too much about too little. Are you taking notes on my nothings?) Bear with me or don’t. (Don’t bare with me. I know that’s how it sounded, but it’s not what I wrote. I’m the one who feels naked and vulnerable in this status message, not you, so grin a bear it, even if barely.)

Don’t say I got this way on my own. I’ll give you the names of my makers. They’re all right here in this book of the face. This book of the farce. This scrolling book of names a Rolodex of shames. They are never far, never far, until they share space with grubs, like the first man who made me, not Adam but his descendant. He was bright as the sun. That’s why they called him Ray. Now I’ve named. Now I’ve named. Now I’ve named the first name.