When the bombs come, we’ll be happy ghosts hiding from the giant spiders, our bodies no longer aching from bad wiring, that thing we thought was a good idea that one time and took months to recover from. When the world becomes translucent glass, outshining the jealous stars, and we finally feel  how substantial shadows are from the inside out, dogs will bark at the smell of our souls, cats will beg  us for food our thumbs can no longer open. We’ll fade in the light and deepen under the moon, who will now  know our true names but still…

For Queer Kids Doom Scrolling Retweet a curse, a prayer or both, phone a shelter from the wolf that is everywhere but in front of you, in the small space where you are your own joy; there is no wolf here. There is no reason to give your joy to the wolf. Such a beast lives in code, lives in prayer, lives in schoolbooks and stories of yesteryear when everything was so great for the wolf. For the wolf it all used to be so great. Stay alert, queer as you do, as you are, keep ringing the bell or…

during the pandemic. She’s considered close contact, after a bad one-night stand. No symptoms, still she’s in lockdown. The text comes in from the boy, Freedom— what he saved in her phone. Freedom: got tested today. Her mind goes to the sex, lackluster. I’m positive. It’s been weeks—Why are you texting me? How long had it been, lockdown?  A midnight meeting, she initiated it. He bumbled America’s bra strap, bumbled everything. It wasn’t worth it, and now, she reads, Close Contact. She revisits old texts, old messages. Better days. I used to be great, she thinks, sighs. Freedom was no…

At the top of the ladder of angels lies the highest ceiling of clouds before God, six wings, with eyes looking everywhere and nowhere at once.  A seraph poses for a photo with God at a cocktail party. Stilettos emerge from long legs and the weather of Islands.  She who dines with God listens, she who is not a seraph does not tweet, does not have a best friend. #HolyHolyHoly #Hahaha #Prada Meanwhile, floods, terrorism, and starvation call for answers beneath the filmy goo of air. At the bottom of the sky lie the archangels, who didn’t get picked for…

I close my eyes and I can see you. Early, early in the morning pouring from the percolator one-handed telephone cradled on your shoulder stretched umbilical cord attached to the wall. Clutching your favorite lipstick-smeared mug chipped and blooming psychedelic flowers sipping the inky liquid, oily surfaced, burnt and bitter Chock Full O’Nuts on sale . . . because you believed it was heaven sent. I open my eyes and I can’t see you. Early, early in the morning standing in line my fingers sticky my thumbs jerking as I text and send, text and send senseless acronyms you wouldn’t understand.…

The Four Immeasurables* are a Motown quartet singing between seams of appearance as tanks roll over swollen plains and mortars demolish labor of centuries                                                                           Crooning Be Kind, ye minds who zip-tie hands, fire bullets in backs of skulls, who turkey shoot babushkas and rape mothers in front of their toddlers                          …

spring from the invisible hunger of all that’s hidden outside of homes, these pairs of sighs bright as angels’ wings, wild as wind on fire. Two lovers walk their dog to pass some time, daylight heat lifting, mountain dreams descending, the witching hour of everything out of sight. These are dangerous days. The smoke from the Lake, Saddle Ridge, Salt, and Creek, Woolsey, Bobcat, tongues of flame, the ghosts above the hills sending everything that lives down, down, down to survive. The lovers hold each other close. The dog is barking, the smell of fear, smoke still circling the mind,…