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.

If my life were a video game, then I would have just leveled up from the pajamas level to the nearly presentable leisurewear level.

Look up. Today’s clouds are the sky’s continents.

Dizziness. Exhaustion. Problems with word recall. General brain fog. This is what I get for leaving the house.

I love my body in the long shadows of evening light.

God and Satan both appeared in my dreams last night. God was being aloof, and Satan was pretending to be God.

God is a slight wind through a cracked door.

There are no shades of gray because gray is a tone, not a shade.

Next week, I have to take two stool specimens to my gastroenterologist for analysis. I’m going to label the specimen bag “A Tale of Two Shitties.”

My medical conditions are not a death sentence. They’re a life sentence.

Today, I stooped to a new low. I used a Facebook sticker as a weapon. Do not follow me into that darkness.

—

Facebook posts from January 30–February 21, 2015.

 Every day a desire.

The cardinal is a single drop of blood on the birch tree’s white arm.

A long day in a short life.

Don’t ask me what my problem is because you’ll be in for a long answer.

I woke up screaming these words in my head: “Why the FURNITURE am I awake right now!” Only the word furniture wasn’t really furniture. That’s just what my phone suggested I type instead of xxxx.

Another night’s sleep, another opportunity to further define these boob wrinkles.

Hey, when did I put on this turtleneck? Oh, that’s just my actual neck.

How am I? I’m wearing a broom skirt as a sundress. That’s how I am.

That’s it. If my underwear doesn’t fit right, I’m throwing it out. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

I must be feeling a little better because my pissed off is back.

Every time I look at potatoes, I think “Taters gonna state.”

—

Facebook posts from January 18–January 30, 2015.

Between now and later, there is nothing but time.

I’ve discovered a private, out-of-the-way place to discuss my greatest hopes and deepest fears. It’s called the internet.

Someone on a Christian radio station just said that God will “supply” me with all my needs. That’s right. Because God is just like Walmart.

I am having trouble operating heavy machinery right now. By heavy machinery, I mean my cell phone.

Last night’s infusion mostly went into the skin surrounding my elbow. Now I have an elbow boobie. For five bucks, I’ll let you fondle my elbow boobie.

I want to stock every closet, cabinet, and cubby in our home with sex toys, then hold an open house. It’s the only way to get someone to buy this place.

I’m walking backwards in an effort to make time go in reverse.

I feel like that ride at the carnival that’s about to break. You know the one.

My hairdresser asked me if I “tucked,” and I said, “No, my penis is invisible.” What she actually wanted to know was whether I tuck my hair behind my ears.

You know you’re having a bad day when you get mad at your chihuahua for not putting her toys away.

In the spirit of us all being one, whenever you accomplish something great, I’m going to put it on my resume.

I just checked the Dalai Lama’s Facebook feed to see if it’s anything like mine. It’s not.

—

Facebook posts from January 14–16, 2015.

Today when I wasn’t wearing any clothing, my husband grabbed me—not for sex but to do a quick all-over mole check. Thanks for keeping me safe, honey. Safe and chaste.

I think my mother was ultimately a good person who, as Thich Nhat Hanh would say, watered the wrong seeds during her lifetime. To be more accurate, she doused those seeds in alcohol.

I’m pretty sure Hayden thinks my flute is a squeaky toy for humans.

I should go to the bookstore with several copies of one of my poems, paste a copy inside all the poetry journals that are available (Poetry, Boulevard, Tin House, and so forth), then list those publications in my bio as places my work has appeared. Because it would be true.

If we keep calling windchills negative, we’re going to give them a complex.

I feel like the whispering prairie is talking about me behind my back. Grass can be such a gossip. It never learned how to hold its tongue.

If she wants her photo taken, then by all means shoot the messenger.

Tonight I tried to draw a phallus, but it ended up looking like a femur. Long time, no see.

I keep reading “wind-powered organism” as “wind-powered orgasm.”

I just misread the news headline “Unique Lodging Options” as “Unique Longdong Options.”

—

Facebook posts from January 11–14, 2015.

More and more, professional attire feels like some sort of costume.

On my way home from a meeting tonight, a nice man on the street kept waving and waving at me. It was so sweet. Something must have been wrong with his hand, though, because all he could wave was his middle finger. Poor guy.

My husband just starred in a Google Glass video. I always knew I’d one day be a celebrity’s arm candy.

Something started growing on my nose last night. I think it’s another nose.

I’ve invented a Ziploc Stupid Bag: It’s called the workplace.

The next time you hear someone in Kansas City refer to “the other side” of Troost, your reply should be, “Oh, you mean the west side?” It will break that person’s brain in a whole new way.

My growing-out pixie or, as I like to call it, my bob-mullet.

I really got lucky with my husband. It’s not easy finding a straight man who likes Depeche Mode.

I see my young face in my current face about as readily as I see a poem in a bowl of alphabet soup.

The way to a man’s heart is through his pericardium.

—

Facebook posts from January 8–11, 2015.

On playing the flute: Tone. Technique. Articulation. Intonation. Vibrato. Breathing. Each of these is needed to make the instrument sing, which in turn allows the body to sing. Today, I got my tone back. Now my body is electric.

My husband goes back to work tomorrow, which will give me more one-on-one time with my chihuahua.

It’s strange being home without my husband. My chihuahua and I are like a tricycle that’s lost one of its wheels.

The yard is dark with starlings.

I am sitting in the dark because the light switch is an inch beyond my reach.

I’m trying to rewrite Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” as “Song of My Gas,” but it’s just not turning out right.

I’m thinking about opening a cuddling business to pay for flute music and poetry books. I need a business plan.

I’m wearing a heating pad as a crown because I have a royal pain.

There should be a setting on this heating pad called “Hell” because that’s how hot I need it to be. The highest setting is “6.” I need “666.”

—

Facebook posts from January 1–8, 2015.

Sometimes I mistake the table of contents of a literary journal for a poem, and I think, This poem is really weird.

I am a pajama-based life form.

Erotic or chihuahua? While watching television, I feel a tongue begin to lick my big toe.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something warm presses against me while I am sleeping.

Erotic or chihuahua? I yawn, and suddenly there is a tongue in my mouth.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something brings me little gifts each day, tokens of affection. A squeaky toy. A ball.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something says, I could nuzzle in your bosom for hours. I will never leave you.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something goes to pieces whenever my husband and I kiss. Something cries. Something wails. Something tries to wedge itself between us.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something kicks my husband in the back repeatedly until he is forced to get out of bed. Then it rolls over and says, “Hold me.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something says, I will watch bad movies with you, all the ones you love. Ice Castles. Legend. Sweet November. That is how devoted I am to you.

—

Facebook posts from December 22–31, 2015.

I’ve decided to put an excerpt of a poem in the memo line for each check I write. Just another way to curate and disseminate poetry content.

If I had to be half a mannequin, I don’t know if I’d rather be the top half or the bottom half.

My hair and I have entered an awkward phase in our relationship.

I want to be a moth in my next life. The cocoon appeals to me far more than the womb.

When does inquiry into illness become an inquisition against the body?

I think I’ll induce a temporary chemical lobotomy by taking lorazepam. Then I’ll stare at the wall like a good girl.

If a form asks what state I live in, is “Chaos” an appropriate response?

The dog woke me up just in time to watch this great NutriBullet infomercial.

After we swallowed one another, we contained the world.

Music is like a second heartbeat.

Someone has short-sheeted my life.

Ghosts keep following me home. The living tell me I shouldn’t feed them, so I do.

Last night I dreamed that I cooked myself for dinner. Ten minutes. One pot of boiling water. Enough to serve all my friends—and one enemy.

I came home tonight smelling like other people, and I liked it.

I will not give thanks for anything I do that causes another living being to suffer.

I’ve been wearing this day inside out and backwards.

Sometimes breath passes for language.

Today, I asked my husband to bring me some almonds. He misunderstood me and went off in search of condoms.

The long arm of the blah.

If I collect enough books, my belongings will be so heavy I won’t ever be able to run away from home.

I’m trying to live like a hamster: little piles of the things that sustain me tucked all around my living space.