i am aware of what they're doing
the hormones they put in our water
to make us complacent; unencumbered

salt water makes me worry free
scraping rough rocks against the
bottom of my feet

when you climb out of the ocean
you will discover that even the
sea glass cannot cut you

convince yourself you are too depressed to do your homework
try to write this poem for an hour
take a shot
text someone who thinks you're sexy
x3

the only thing that got me out of that cracked out weed paranoia i surprising even myself chose willingly was you saying you don't have to think that way don't you ever count your footsteps when you walk? don't you ever make pasta and watch the water while waiting for it to boil? i didn't even realize you went out of your way to walk me home because the way i was acting you knew what was up, something wrong again. well i know that night ended badly and i didn't tell you how i really felt but still i remember when you told me don't you ever count your steps something in my brain turned on and i looked at your feet next to mine, hand pushing a bike. 

Worm King

sometimes you catch it for an instant
in unexpected reflections
mirrored, peering out through a face
you mistakenly took to be yours

the moment passes, the horror recedes
you can never stay long awake
to the squirming behind your eyes

gainesville

a weekend like this could be
captured in disposable frames--

some of the most important moments
underexposed and sick with grain
others bright and soft and out of focus
poetry written in parking lots and cheap food
crushed cans still bleeding on the hotel room floor

and none of the subjects are where you anticipated

drinks

take the sterling spoon out of your mouth
and use it to stir your sun tea, spit coalesces
at top and bottom and the glass sweats

you like your beverages, a liquid person
3 ice cubes cold, something involving
coconut or p. edulis or vodka

hand me that spoon, now, please
no, I am not going to bend it with my mind
your bravado induces me, dear, to cut you off

where are you going, where have you been

You ride buses all day with a limp-gloved
heart. The getting-there isn’t important,
but the going— bus windows frame

sidewalk-walkers and their umbrellas
into photographs ledged on grandmother
fireplaces, memories you can finger but
never quite have. On the bus, you don’t walk time,

you ride it. Everything measures in lurches. 
Press nose to glass, shade pedestrians with
your face-smudged grooves, envy the outside
their sense of destination and gapping strides,

listen for their footfalls sure and certain— the
bus map says, there are still so many stops between
where you are from and where you are going

Our Shallow End

the room of your mind's got a mirror for a wall
this makes it seem huge when it's really quite small
i try to probe deep
but find
nothing
at
all.

when drunk i feel like reenacting the
'smack my bitch up' music video
the shaky camera of my brain
falling through bar pink
through our bedroom
into bed
screaming oh fuck
as i wretch my body from
the sheets
as i
allow my guts to
come undone