Apartment 1816

We are crummy kids and martyrs
Birds of warped feathers and electric cores

Unstable faces wanting
To heal.

We pile an old coffee table
In ashes

We knit together our dreams
In a frantic rug

Waiting for an explosion,
for the day we become Holy,
Old messes dripping away,

The day we find the horizon
of the ocean that terrorized
Us, we’ll scaffold that star
we named “hopefully Estrella”

From an alien grotto
We’ll stumble in quiet bliss

One day, I’m convinced
We’ll be somewhere radiant
Hair and eyes tousled
In meteors

Our old and battered world
dancing through us, blooming
from a Lunar gorge.

We release our safeties.


he met his life and choked it

tattooed stars on his palms
to watch them fade

his orbital life
swung from ugly skyscrapers
and molted like an apple core

he sent his questions to space
but lost his map,

wanted everything a mess
so empty meant something

on his forearm, he tattooed repulsive
in black ink, his kneecap preached don’t try

unlucky with permanence
his caved chest, a skinny tunnel
his torso shrunk close to his bones
compacted inversely, he became
black holes and supernova

as I became angry
for everything still trapped
beneath the sky,

I fell in love with his pain.

Hell Off Earth

I am living in his backwards screenplay and he is rewinding.

We marry on set. He tells the same story to everyone:

How we took the black hole out, slogged away the human left.

How we ate toxically and traveled for the clouds.

Where our stories made us less than we were.

I left the earth for you, I say.

I grew these feathers for you.

The mechanics of his voice


His eyes become the fierce jungles from which I run.

From the outside, we see everything and touch nothing.

His eyes, so dark at night.

The sky is always this dark.