I drove past the gorge and smell like the gorge.

All this land and yet no healing because of all these people.

I’m always moving inside the wrong water.

My local hardware store has a copy of The Iliad.

His mind is a gas burner that won’t light.

It’s like my clothes have been spending time on other people. They smell very good and not at all like me.

The burst of adrenaline that occurs shortly before someone destroys me.

Again, but without the pathologizing language.

Don’t make a long story longer by stating that it’s going to be a long story.

My wind is full of rocks.

Feel free to throw tomato soup on my poetry.

I used to think I was experiencing ennui. Turns out I just have a bad heart.

Mihi in odio est. It is hateful to me.

Do not give up. The earth needs our palliative care.

We live in a post-humane world.

Night of deep crimes. Day of mirage ceilings. During each, an orchestra of fire between my ears.

I’m some sound like a crow or crowbar, a cheap closet door fisted open.

Here, it’s an afterlife of branches and ancestors and hands on my shadows.

This autumn is unmetered, a dream of wind and shovels.

These ethics really get in the way of a good time.

They’re not unfriending you because they’re not paying attention to you.

You. Your tongue. Your bell-clap. Your drumming. Pull fistfuls of everything from my dress, my drawers.

Driving home, I blast rock music for the cows flanking the road.

Tonight, they got to hear AC/DC.

I met a Gila monster today.

My favorite hawk just ate my favorite lizard.