i’ve never had a normal experience on
the F train.

there is no dawn or twilight on the
subway platform, no seasons save for
dank. rats building homes with those
tiny hands, studiously locating pizza
crusts and hotdog nubs. the smell
permeates and wafts, choking me in
the summer months. thick humidity
you can cut with a knife, sweat dripping
down my calves and between my tits.

unrivalled is the intense pleasure i feel as
i wash the day off of me, peeled off in
damp layers, a pile of rubble on my floor.

bang it out

the familiar ache as i gingerly
alight on the landing. a Good ache,
mind you, reminding me that i am
still myself, i am still here haunting
my own walls for these years to
come. what are the pieces of our
selves we leave behind, anyway? a
note, a warm feeling, a faded
photograph or three. scatter
my ashes at the Frolic Room.


you are a series of smoke and
mirrors, an emotional junk bond
where a man once was; or maybe
you were never really there
at all.

words tenuously strung together by
a simulation of humanity, i fell for it
(but not for you). hook line and
sinker seemed simple because you
seemed safe, a lustful port in an
overwhelming nor’easter. not a
sweet boy, not a fuck boy, but a
sad boy; the Much Worse
third thing. vapour and gauze and
blood and bruises. the mess you’ve
left behind before, shrouded in
mystery for a reason.

LA is a small town and you make
it feel even more minute. after all,
misery loves to tell company
to fuck off.


weather could be a problem in Florida
tomorrow, but pollen is streaming
through my windows all evening. and
i wonder, what does it smell like
in space? do moon rocks change
scent with the prolonged darkness or
the sudden decaying burn of re-entry?

i want to read to you inside
the nostril of a rocket. the rain
will clear our sinuses before we
are set ablaze.

072005 // revised 012023


on the vernal equinox, 6.36am eastern
daylight time, the sun will pass
the equator. draw a line through the
day and there will

be equal halves. hemispheres
of sound and light, birth, renewal,
death, and something silently
stirring in my mind. one part fire,
one part water, two parts sun
and the squeak of a mattress spring

as i roll out of bed to start
it all over again on a circle, a
bicycle spoke, an engine droning
in the suburbs that maybe will wake
the neighbors, but nobody
knows my name these days.

and sometimes i cannot hold
myself together, can’t quite shake
off the sleep, can’t find the ignition
and my mind trips on the details. balance

is a plaid thermos of black coffee when
the dawn barely catches you, and
someone is waiting
on the other side.

so here i am driving down route 17, and
i know you’re at JFK again, waiting
for me again, absolutely cursing under
your breath because i never could
get up on time. that flight is always
murky in my memory. still dark on the
plane, recycled air standing at a halt,
the city lights seem dull from
the window seat.

is there a name for the time of day when
the sky sits there expectantly? is there
a word like dusk that describes the
darkness when it knows, yearns for,
and is terrified that light will come to
give it absolution?

two equal halves, balance. Justice holds
the scales, and synonyms seem to
outweigh antonyms. She is tipping
because She cannot find a word to tell
you what i am, when all i can do
is tell you what i am not. so i coast
down 17 and know about the sun, think
about the months, about the way the
world and our lives circle, and
we’re stuck on a loop
doomed to repeat this moment, as
i drive. driving, morning, coffee,
waiting, wanting. again

and again, and whoever said there was
nothing new on this earth, they were
right; but of course they were not
the first to say it. our lives are spherical—

cut a line through the middle. we might
be equal halves, but i want the bigger
half. the paradoxical half.

032005 // revised 012023