After my brother died and came back as a ghost, Mom took up an interest in astrology. When she was away at work, I looked up the meaning of myself. A water sign even though I couldn’t swim. You were made of air, which made sense, given your tendency to jump from things. Mom had ripped out all the pages on my brother. A fire sign. I found them in her nightstand and read every page. When she found them out of order that night, she yelled at me. Can’t I have any privacy? She was worried my brother, who’d taken refuge in the living room and refused to move, was going to burn down the house. That’s ridiculous, he said, but he wasn’t talking to Mom anymore, so I had to tell her. Water cancels fire, I said, and Mom said, It’s sweet, these little things you believe in. Afterwards, you told me we could float away from it all. Air goes up for miles, you said, and I thought of the nothingness that came after. (more…)


It’s funny how they always blame it on
the girl. Cherchez la femme now slut shame. Like
itty bitty me could bring down the sons
of industry and prep school breeding. Strike
some blow against the aristocracy 
still armed with money, power, even God
when I don’t even have a solid plan
or decent reputation. Use my body
and blame me for your weakness. It can’t be
you. It cannot be that I was something 
you so wanted you gave up all to see
me crawl across your kitchen nude and lean
like some malnourished kitty cat while you
hold all the milk and savor every mew.


oh you, you must live to be hush, my honeydew
—I have to have you, your ankle, your hormone, the
ladybirds twisting there against your scalp. I never want

to check my email ever again today. never want the copious
blood in my hole, I would hate to be left on the cool, white
stairs without any rosebuds from the bachelor. and today,

I purchased a very large box of strawberries, astonishing
and huge, and there was a dead baby sugar-ant in one of the
sepals. such tiny beings tend to sicken me, but now that I think (more…)

Synthetic Reincarnate

Words will be the most sadistic instruments 明教
Producing purely imagistic quantum Manichean
Mythos Valentinian Hallucinating La Vita Nuova
Emanating Emancipated worlds within perpetuity
Lighting Itself immolating past Lyric via negativa

Logic to dichotomous staccato Over
Souls flow Like Lava Phaedrus diōs
Marian Apparitions Muerte scythed (more…)

“The most tangible of all visible mysteries, fire” – Leigh Hunt


     I dreamt once of coming to a large pile of dry timber arranged in “teepee” fashion for a fire. The butts of the timbers were wedged against a circle of large stones already scored with the heat from previous fires. The chamber the cone of timbers made was large enough for me to walk in, but there wasn’t enough room between the timbers for me to squeeze in. Still. In the chamber was all manner of tinder and shavings – perfect to start the fire. I walked around the pyre with one of those jerry cans that have a little pump and spray nozzle and emptied it onto the tinder and shavings and onto the timbers themselves. With the jerry can empty I took a blowtorch and lit it with a flint striker. I lit the pyre with the blowtorch. It flared up into the night like the jet of a rocket seeking the moon. The light of the fire washed out the stars and the heat of it, even in my dream, seared my face and I can smell my own burning hair. How often do dreams have odors? Never. (more…)

From where I came I had no memory. I was searching for a place or an event that I could not have known before I had arrived there, and I found myself traversing a disjointed space of singular locations, which were guiding me beyond by means of signals I could not completely grasp, but which appeared to point the way towards that end. There was meaning in the way that things erupted into view, but where that meaning led me was beyond my understanding. I could follow and believe, but nothing more.

Dense evergreens. The slope rises. We climb. We track it. Five of us. At night, we sleep in a ring around the fire. Thunder in the distance. Rain? A wreck? A cannon? We wonder. No clouds we can see, only bare stars. City long gone. Our flats busted. In the morning, a hawk keens high above. We see it. Kathleen, our leader, says, No more talking. As we climb, we find tunnels that lace the mountain. Climb up, climb through. Further. Find traces. A human arm. Dry, decomposing, breaking down. We check the arm for resemblance, but it is not our mother’s. Kathleen sings. We all sing along. We follow, rocks in our hands. We climb. Traces of it: uprooted trees, strange footprints, more parts. The monster. After we left the city, the thought came — not sure which one it came to, but still — we would try to reassemble her. A resurrection, parts equaling a whole. Kathleen sings. We all sing along. Further. Grows cold. Up one peak, then another. An unceasing range. Quiet of day, no thunder in the light. We see the monster over the next ridgeline, follow a trail of dry arms and legs through nettle beds. Another night, more thunder. It is shedding. Next day. Kathleen sees. By the waterline, breaking apart into the lake, clogging the surface. Fluid, foam. Thighs and wrists and heads sticking out. We charge. It turns. Work is over quick. A weakness had crept in. Us? Never stronger. We disassemble it on the rocky lakeshore. Piles of elbows, knees, torsos, and so on, all lying on chips of slate. A dryness to the skin. Finally, we think we have the right configuration. A resemblance persists. We see our mother. A few sections missing, but still. We wait. Wait all night. Thunder in the distance. We watch the remains. Wait for change. For motion. All through the next day. At night, Kathleen walks to the waterline then comes back. When back, face blank. Follow, she asks. We go further. Higher and higher. We walk all night, no light coming back. A fog enters. Cannot see the sky. Up among the clouds. Thunder growing close. We breathe the fog. Flash of light. Into our lungs. Follow, she asks. A rush, a roar. We climb until morning. We climb until the sky is behind us. (more…)