Jumbles and ties, braids and hiphuggers.

When I miss you

becomes bytes of sound

when the Miss you miss

is as glossy as a tabloid,

as unforgettable as Monroe in red;

how a phrase becomes a slogan

a chant, syncopated rhythms

drilled into routine

like the picture you thumb over in your wallet behind your credit cards

It is the strand used to weave a tendril

snagging the ends of the skirt

you haven’t found the ambition to push away.




somehow it became the jam you put on stale toast

the obligatory text you shove across the keyboard late at night

as your eyes are pulsating from the memory of stimulation.

When saying words turns into the cracks between your fingers,

and watching water fall through knuckles to the 


When did you learn to struggle against it? Tightening the noose

around your eager neck?

Words that had such weight, now falling upwards into mist 

around your eyes.

A tearing, a suture, an overlapping of fabric.

I sit on the porch of my childhood

ripping leaves from dandelions, with a forethought to the edibility of beauty.

I stare into the cracks between the pavement,

wondering how we learned to smooth out edges by carving gashes into the air

with things created in the wombs of machines–

Beams and iron hulls pouring what we call ambition over melting horizons.

It is a tremendous thing,

when we look up into the sky and see the sun glaring down at us,

 burning our frivolities out of anger for the atrocities we’ve done to the clouds.


I suppose there is an attractiveness

in the probing pulse of productivity.



If she loves you, if she really loves you, you’ll know it. If you can wake up to her staring at you and it’s not even mildly creepy, if you catch her smelling the shoulder of the hooded sweatshirt you lent her for an autumn walk at the beach, and not for B.O., if she makes you a pancake in the shape of a shark, if she calls you drunkenly at four in the morning “to talk,” if she laughs at your jokes when they’re funny and makes fun of you when they’re not, if she keeps her fridge stocked with Guinness tallboys for when you come over, if she tells you how she wishes she were closer to her sister and that her dad makes her sad: She loves you, of course she loves you.” ~ Pasha Malla

Arundhati Roy.

But what was there to say?

Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honey-colored shoulder had a semicircle of teethmarks on it. Only that they held each other close, long after it was over. Only that what they shared that night was not happiness, but hideous grief.

Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.


The God of Small Things.