Ginny

My love for you lies still, a nut in its densest shell, vibrating. You spun the smoke of the past and blew it in my eyes. Until now I...

You called me Uvas I still have bug-eyes it was endearing it was myopia We’d stick branches wrapped in spiderwebs into trees’ knots...

I like working at the Pyg, because it reminds me of a sandwich shop in Lincoln Park near DePaul University called the Bourgeois Pig. They...

You opened your mouth  and out came the sound of glass shattering I stood up and walked slowly, deliberately, away from you, glass...

An anvil did not drop on your head today. That is one blessing you can count, I suppose. Though you may have still felt gripped in vices...

No one told us we would have to  mourn the day of our birth,  because it really was only one day,  and so it didn’t last that long. No...

You were not some steppingstone.  You were not some era nor a blemish; not some dybbuk  in a filthy box that collects dust and ire in the...

Someone asked, “Could you write me a book of poetry by hand?” I gave it to them but I bound it with the ropes I use to bind me: My torso hangs akimbo like a masterpiece in butchered pieces— suspended— some consider it perverted; others a knotted ballet— I consider it a job, binding my heart up like any  self-proclaimed artist or deviant would. You should know by now  that I am bound hard and fast, too, within a proverbial Chinese finger trap: Push closer! You yell, but I tug

HYPERDOC PIECE (click words) An aging art critic shuffled through the Tate, stomach rumbling, seeking something to chew on. Maybe the...

An early memory of my Lithuanian  grandmother blowing the warmth from an egg with a straw My deprived longing for her simple caresses which she expressed only with crayon wax, controlled, gliding strokes across an ostrich eggshell While watching her adeptly  etching with  all her affection Diasporic Lugan with knowledge of Easter eggs sharp as needles with which she afflicted their plump promise, she could relate to them: she had been stuck and  drained, too. But she had surv

Sweetened-up strings hold fast to your fingers—you hear resonance like a false harmonic when they unstick. You hammer wrought-iron fingertips into its long neck’s ebony; the vibration through your knuckles rings familiar and mechanical. Punctuating your collective frustration, you draw the bow in a quick chop in front of the bridge. You peer through its f-hole (you’re intimate).  Amidst whisps of dust hides a deceased Czech’s last name and a serial number tracing to an old to

AI can never be as alive or as culturally deviant as we endeavor to be. It can never achieve our lived experiences, and so it does not have the power to take our voices away. It doesn’t understand. It sets a higher bar for all writers linguistically, but it will never take away the souls of the living. In the real world, it reveals ever-darkening corners within corporations' greed. When it comes to independent artists, it could advance us, at a cost.  AI, like most artists, i

All the dreams you had for other people Are coming true for you, today: Sat neatly against a white background, like a word printed for the first time you experience Nothingness and its peace, like stale public air in the back of a Crown Victoria or behind a locked aluminum door. from snitched pulpit, watching them all spin to self-wished future emblazoned with bitten tongues on fire, you wonder with anxious burden what you have, in ignorance, stolen in the high-viz night, and

Hey! split the night with razor feathers lap and tear the damp forging onward, no face, indeterminate flourishes and endless collision, cold and warm fronts eddying and whipping  in frigid vortexes, famished for being vacuumed words  suspended in pregnant air, operators vibrating, functions print(“saltando!”), keywords col legno; a waterfall of arithmetic plucked like a cat-gut. it dances in place, sinew wound tight to stone pegs and a liquid neck.  it can’t paint secrecy wit

As if nothing were new anymore, Except for the world ending— You remarked, your hands outstretched to usher a popping, crackling host,...

There you go again, blasting Arcade Fire's The Suburbs on headphones that betray all privacy! Your nose deep on the opposite side of a Pop Socket, you wonder, listless, when life might serve to entertain… The carrots and ranch you roll over your tongue  are zesty Midwest ambrosia, your egg-crate mattress topper A cumulous throne. You’re itching for a goddess or some sort of earthly nymph, but all who call upon you are those  with zest for: board game, "pupper," 40oz water bot

It was the first day of the fifth week that the sirens rang to signal soft lockdown. Through the pallid haze outside my front windows,...