colors are like
pain/indefinite. your
bruise — no

stormswirl. what
I see is not
necessarily. you

falling is the beginning
of developments one
day that may divide us.

any day at
all. you fall and
the mark looks like

I caused it.
the desired result.
clearly lesser, I

acknowledge I am
no person one mis-
takes for gentle.

hue prohibits
the expression
of essential

truths: purple
is the heal-
ing part.

let me let you.


to the guy in the house

I stand on the porch. Colder
than I imagined but also pleasant in that
my breath is nearly always visible.

To whom. Rivers hide
stone to keep themselves frothing
and rootbeer brown. Rivers

knock you under and tear you
from. Our hands’ oars feel
them binding fast like frost.

I want this to be harder. Outside
My ears burn at no slander though
why not. Apologies mean what

to a futurist. There’s a promise
about the earth I can’t. To
traverse it one could lift off

letting it turn beneath. This only
from far away. Outer
space, I’ve heard rumors,

lacks heat certainly, its fuels
fallen below any fight
for reignition.

dear man not reading me

I have been all of a stew —
I mean carrots nearly gravied
strung through necks of gray meat.

Should you not here taste
comfort? You are not any here.  
Some heres have hands, others food

or do without. I do not
mean porn — words are skin you 
know unpapered, a split-from

form, incomplete. I ask for
eating. Salt, starch. In digestion
I try not to be missed.

Next Big Thing

I was invited by Sian Griffiths (whose Eyre-esque Western-ific novel Borrowed Horses is blessedly coming soon!) to participate in this blogosphere party. Here goes: What is your working title of your book (or story)?

My second novel does not have a working title.  Correction: all of its working titles suck.  It is either–The Trouble with Mattering, The Rate at Which She Travels Backwards, I Neg–You Neg–We Neg: the Conjugation

Where did the idea come from for the book?

The idea was for a world so saturated with media that white space cost, and cost dearly. Artists become the purveyors of absence–whores of nothing.

What genre does your book fall under?

Hell if I know.  Sci-fi, spec-fic, psycho-opera.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

no comment


What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Nothing is what you thought it was, also — it’s all covered over in layers of white gesso.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I love my agent.  I would marry her if I were in the third grade and someone dared me to.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

It’s not ripe yet.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Labyrinth (Pan’s), Labyrinth (Bowie’s), Labyrinthes (Borges’)

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I was inspired to write this book after looking at the art of Agnes Martin and listening to my radio on static– wondering if all art truly provides is an interruption in the texture of what surrounds– I went on to wonder what would happen if everything that surrounded was false, a reprint… is an interruption in a series of falsehoods a kind of truth?  Oh, and also there’s a secret society in it plotting the takeover as the world-as-it-is-known and there’s sex and almost-sex and maybe-kind-of-sex-but-not-really.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Maybe the sex parts?  That it opens with a really aesthetic death?  That Philadelphia is a character in the book?  Or, wait, maybe people do not like Philadelphia…




nothing is as blue as this blue
nothing real
no thing forever
I have no forevers in the category self
no foot in the door
under the borrowed places
burrowing my speakeasy way I find
speaking’s not easy
I listen wrong too, too interested
as if other people
were – but the ones I like
the smart ones know they are not
and I am exposed as a fraud
by my eager nod
my whistle my sallying forth
the way my head tilts up to catch
a drop of the day before the day ends
in degradation

which is a deeper color than any I’ve called

or than any color that has called me black


new ink made the world surge

sixty dead from trampling few

of them men


if I were

a member of the stampeding

party?  fireworks gone


bananas, the world churned

afterwards children crushed petals

what power is


this power — foot on ribcage can’t

look down sometimes in crowds

carried along


who kills like that or lives

anonymously when no charges



who puts

a clean shirt on the next

day over no marks


no place

on the body in the world



the bruised flower clothing

on the street all broken

stalks swept away


ashcan ashcan ashcan

word love

Andria at word love is very kind.

I just finished the beautiful and affecting Sleight by Kirsten Kaschock, and I can honestly say I’ve never read anything like it. It was a novel written in poetry, in dense, brief little chapters — each one a rounded, shiny truffle with a spider lurking inside.


Assignment 12.7.12

Assignment 12.7.12

Prompt– Right something for a friend’s birthday.

I will never not be none. Or alone. Shattered, we are the same blue-green. We are cut from same and cut the same. Though I whet and worry–your words are sharper. You grind them small and down for the children but they betray you: they make me laugh. Darkly, redly, madly. Our children are imperfect enough that we can like them. Tomorrow I will put on a black turtleneck, wire-rim glasses, and be my own boyfriend. Or we could go dancing. I look down, the ground beneath me, and I see you glinting. Sometimes you pick me up and sometimes we lie there, just, broken–the winter sun soaking us like jewels.


Assignment 12.3.12

Assignment 12.3.12

An empty chair sitting next to an empty chair. There is so much to say. Explain all that is unrequited and unfinished between them. This is a dialogue. Explain why it is snowing and whose mouths are to be fed before twilight. Have the long heldback conflict commence under the cover of silence. And if they are rocking chairs? Reflect on rust. They must not be an old married couple or brothers looking back. Any conversation should be able to lead to true intercourse, or out to the road beyond the hydrangeas. What are ghosts to one another–what keeps them troubling the air?

Assignment 12.1.12

Outline a talk.  In the talk you must be brilliant.  A celestial organism–a sky-whale.  Yes.  Imagine that you are a sky-whale tethered to the earth by a nano-filament and to be once again free, you must argue to the pissants of this small-minded planet the width and breadth of the universe–and why you must be again allowed to breach its surfaces and to search in its most intimate rifts for all that a sky-whale must search for.  Remember, you must succeed according to their rubrics.  Your existence is contingent on their mass decision.  How to seer the mob into seeing.  I challenge you.