“Dear God,
Won’t you whisper to the man on the pulpit
that old things have passed away?”

The fact is: I have read the script. It says: God speaks to me
in a strange dialect; it says I would know when God’s hands graze my body.

But today I have no words to make myself feel something else other than loneliness so I am sitting on the carpet-less floor to let the cold have me, pinch feeling into my body if only to let my mouth have words for it alone.

“Men have been in the business
of naming things since Adam named
the animals in the garden. We are men,
and on this basis alone our lord agrees
with whatever we christen a thing.”

“With weeping candles across world capitals where
The sole of their dreams will never again touch, let
The name of each and everyone of them without
Body or face be written that they may find peace”

“On this side of the city, /
I am the lamb /
I am the sacrifice.”

“the vines relentless in their unraveling / over
the brick that want only to be bare / one man’s beauty becomes another’s brutal architecture”

I’m sitting on the front stoop of apartment when a flock of birds interrupts my sadness and guzzles up the berries on the tree next to me. My neighbor walks by and in my new-found […]

“but emotion is, after all, an artfully conjured gesture /
a dance behind the raised sheets /
of audience that is not audience”

“My numerous damages are nocturnal. They sleep with me, /
holding my face like a mask as I mistake poison /
throbbing in my cheek for a heart in my mouth”