I turned to ash in the center of our alabaster living room
while your back was turned
and stucco hands cut through the dark

It’s not that you didn’t see it, it’s that you couldn’t.
I was a child,
You were in love.
And you weren’t always the nicest person but you still took care of me

The Flood

you take pictures on old cameras in old clothes and try to feel new
these glasses were your uncle’s in the seventies, that girl was in his dream
last night
which is not noteworthy because it happens all the time
but lately he’s writing everything down, even the unimportant things

and then he tells you about the last person he loved because he wants
it to matter to someone else at least a little, since it doesnt matter
to the other person anymore

and the last person he loved was a girl very very slow to smile
which of course made it better
who mostly only talked about the universe, how small she felt

and as you two are talking, you take pictures of how his face changes
when he talks about the time him and this girl were in love mutually
and the times they were in love separately 
and how both times hurt in different ways

and the boy tells you his name is river which you know it isn’t
and he knows you know it isn’t
but he wants you to remember him as someone who was always running
in one direction, towards one destination
and he tells you the girl he loved was named The Ocean
and you think this might be true

and he tells you how The Ocean could not decide
whether the tides were coming in or out but either way
it always left her very confused when they changed their minds

and how everyone touched The Ocean but rarely ever let
her have them completely, and when they did they called it ‘Drowning’
and they called the stillness after ‘Death’
but The Ocean only ever wanted someone to Stay

and he tells you how The Ocean never knew what shape she was,
only ever filling the container into which she was spilled and only
stable when left completely still, and sometimes
when he’s by a window he still thinks he hears The Ocean
at night
but it’s only ever the highway
it’s always only ever the highway

and the next night you develop the pictures in a darkroom in your basement
where your father used to use to develop pictures of the girl he wanted to marry
before he met your mom
and you hang them from wire by clothespins in the red light

and eventually in art galleries

in case The Ocean ever frequents the city
because you know if she visits the city she spends all her time in galleries
and maybe she will see the river and maybe
she will want to run back towards him

and you know what that kind of love would be called
and you know the world would not understand it
and would run away from it, and be afraid
and you title the series of photographs
'The Flood'

and you wonder who Rain is


I like the sound that ice will make
When your glass is full and your hand can’t help but shake
I’m not sure what is left to say
Now the dinner’s done and the sun’s been put away
I guess you may sense you should leave
But you look so cute with your hair attached to me
I hear the minutes tick their songs
You should grab that hand
And learn how to hold on
To something
Just laugh at the ending


Self-portrait in orange jacket by Egon Schiele, 1913


we stole cute sized Erlenmeyer flasks from a high school
they don’t work very well as flasks but we can just use them as shot glasses i guess i don’t know that’s my guess what do you think just a hypothesis
just a hypothesis you are someone i enjoy being around
in conclusion fuck myself for…

a sus poem


plant ten billion ((or something)) flowers with me over the course of a few years
plant a kiss on me ((a lot))

you planted a seed in me
the first time i saw you
rainbow pancakes and awkward dissatisfaction
grow chamomile in my ribs to soothe the boiling water and make tea
let ginger take root…

Egon Schiele  1913

"Out of Body"
pan pastel and acrylic on paper