Insomnia Diary

1:28 am./ I’ve taken Ambien every day this week. On Tuesday a quarter tab,/ by Thursday, a half. My pillow bucks. Crows peck the skylight& the moon’s a neon fog. My love breathes through his mouth—flaming a fire./ I close my eyes to the smoke but sparks remain.


Toilets: A Journey

A toilet is a place, too, like a seaside resort or a centuries-old city is a place. A visit to a toilet bears recounting, too.

On the train from Kraków

Today begins with the beautiful / green eyes of the Gestapo /
officer. He looks /
at you & you look

Talking to the Dead

She doesn’t know why I left the other one who sees the dead was too young to be sent off to boarding school stayed home to witness

A Guide to the Dying

The Faithless is back in the room with the Dying. A nurse knocked on the door to administer more narcotics, and the family looked away.


Q-tips; under-the-tongue thermometers; ear thermometers; once, a meat thermometer; a Neti pot, swiftly rejected; toothpicks; anal beads; lollipops from the doctor’s office; lollipops from the bank drive-thru; upwards of 57,000 pounds of food; 43.5 gallons of alcohol; needles; the lip of a pipe...