There is an arrow

thought I was easy enough to hear
only yeses instead your room
filled with rain from the open windows the sink
overflowed behind a closed door pillow on
the floor all night. I want this poem to be
a circle but here in the middle there is
only one direction. There is an arrow
shooting through the roof telling me to
follow it out of the house. when I think of
where my life is heading I only see arrows
piercing through taught fabric.

Tonight, building the tower

Tonight, building the tower

of toothpicks was like

creating a poem.

Each stacked higher tenuously-

little besides friction

to hold. Did she ever fuck

him or did she sit spinning

on the chair? The plot is

just a question that will dissolve

like the layers after they

reach the tenth story

and we begin to see

that everything falls.

He is facing me mouthing

words I cannot see.

How Much

How Much Is The Internet

Real-Time Networks

When this poem leaves these keys it

Has nowhere to go but I will make it leave

Or repeat with a control “C” or a

Control “P” I am the original controller

Of this text but soon it will be able to

Be copied by The Reader or deleted

But not erased or burned for that is the

Nature of a Real-Time Network

this poem

this poem feels like stretching arms up neck forward grabbing while looking around a 200 degree plane.

this poem feels like fingers extended then curved, extended then curved, extended then curved.

this poem feels like last october when the puddles crunched under each boot saying “OC TO BER”.

this poem feels like moms eye when seeing Cassatt- Crisp and Sharp then slowly blurring.