Make posters for my favorite band that never will play. Hang them on the bottoms of passerby’s feet. This please the tiniest sections of sidewalk, and as a result it is done. The bushes in the backyard almost finish their novel but my landlord has them dug out. I can’t even tell them goodbye or read their first draft. The pages are littered everywhere: in other trees, in the homes of the elderly, in my sister’s hair follicles. Most importantly on desks across the nation. Gather up my last posters and read each one aloud in the main square before I burn them with matches. Give the ashes of the paper to a redheaded baby who whispers, “You used to already know” and then I am the bushes.

is it dancing

i don’t really move

is everyone’s inside this way?

we all like this music right?

it’s spilling

i’ve lost it now

i am never challenging enough

2 skeletons
death comes for us all

I like that

I’m not overthinking it

it’s already too late

I made a decision once

Then I said

There will be only light

like in kelp forests now

I am the hero now

Let’s get Thai food

This is a shit poem

I’m wishing for YUNG LUV
I am so supermassive

It’s a tale of ancients
This alternative love medley

Sapa Inca

when you turn —
lip sync the dead

it’s travel

listen for
the slow mountains

I’m your age
I’m not your age

my roommate
tells me
I’m not me
because all my
cells are new

it’s like watching nascar
no it’s like water

ess effem

poet laureate of the space between the bottom of the couch and the floor

hot tamale between the faces of people on public transit in San Francisco

white hot language surfer

the grass blades talking to the train tracks


cool fat cat on skis

the tree in your backyard

every collar on your collared shirts

the second button on your favorite shirt

your fifth drug test

your bunk drugs

the planet hiding behind the sun