type 2 blue

i wish that when i didn’t take my medication i’d get a little anxious and a little sad and cry a little bit and let everybody comfort me and bring me snacks because everybody would know like the rest of my *mentally ill* friends with trauma and whatever

i wish i could call my medication my happy pills and talk about them and leave them out accidentally when i’m in a rush to get to class and i wish that i could forget to take them and not run the risk of having seizures/ruining(taking) my life/grabbing sharp objects/smashing shit and everyone else who comes within a five-foot radius

i wish temporary was reality and with a little bit of therapy and a little bit of time and a little bit of exercise and a little bit of self-love and meditation that i could cancel my prescription at cvs and not swallow dry when i can’t find my water bottle but i’m shaking and turning and racing and black and silver inside and gripping the table until half an hour rolls by and i can breath again.


hudson lost (draft)

there used to be shad fisheries and gill nets and hickory sticks,
middle-motored boats and the accidental perch.

all you needed was a knife to split her down the belly.
in one sac of roe, five hundred thousand shad, you know.


the things that guppies do

I desire to justify my words
every time I write a poem,
to sit beside you and explain,
no, this, this, is what I mean,
this actually happened,
this was a dream,
or else a memory,
a photograph,
a song that held me
captive for days,
and this thrum
in my chest,
it’s here,
it’s alive,
and it’s about you,
it needs stifling,
or soothing,
and I’m not sure which,
but I am angry and confused,
and no one knows about you.

So I stop writing and smoke,
I stare into my fish tank,
and okay, yes,
I confess,
I do,
that my anxieties
are ridiculous, a little,
and laughable, often,
sometimes gaudy,
out of tune,
a color more fit for diaries,
for coming-out stories,
for the overdrawn cliché:
I want you to know that I know this,
and that I’m writing the poem anyway.

One guppy courts the other,
then gets distracted by food.
I write a line,
but get distracted, too


she talked for fifty minutes,
then kicked me out of the brownstone,
to dark bluish rain,
and I feel her eyes on my back,
through the glass.

she is watching me flail,
the sleeves of my raincoat are twisted,
and I can’t put it on, and I’m crying, a little,
and the boy next door, he’s staring, too,
from the frat-house stoop,
she sees their parties from her room,
she said, I hardly think about you.

the monologue, it was brilliant,
and the performance, top-notch,
it is one year later and
I am almost convinced
that she’s fine,
really great,
though her face read deranged,
and I am not quite convinced,
since her hair is blue, now,
with violet-pink,
and I don’t know what to think.

I am walking in puddles, yellow-bruised,
I am kite-high confused
two miles above Broadway,
I am small as a speck at 5:42.

I came for a party, but the group appointed me exorcist

Michelle’s bed was unmade
while she was away,
and something scrambles the speakers,
though they’re working right now;
I am here for the party,
and also an exorcism,
Ana is twenty-three and
that’s too old for ghosts,
we agreed;
she stole holy water
from the chapel,
it’s right here in the cup,
but we’re saving it since
we’re mob at the moment,
all drunk from mulled wine,
and the synesthete’s dancing,
though her leg’s in a cast,
and the beat’s purple black,
Heartbeats claps to the street,
and the room is alive;
there are ghosts and we know;
and I see the signs true,
in the South we inherit
ghosts with kudzu,
I am qualified for the position,
I announce to the crowd;
and they whisper in wonder,
brief simmer to hush,
Ana passes the cup;
I dip my hand in the water,
and flick drops at each doorway,
this is good riddance I say,
they join in and we’re chanting,
now profane, delirious,
I press my thumb to wet foreheads,
I have crosses to paint,
water spills to the floor,
we howl and breathe green.


I read that eventually,
glacial ice becomes thick enough
to flow under stress of its own weight,
and now I think of the Laurentide constantly,
of ice and chewed rock,
a melted tongue
cutting the island to grooves.

I hear things as they were.
A churn of plucked gravel.
For basal melt, whine.
Since schist likes to whisper,
I might as well listen,
go walk on the bones.

Oh, glacial erratic,
I am fell for you, too.
All these scars in the park,
always scraping out blues.