Sonnet 3

I’ve got a new home now : one with plenty of men
but no father: one with light tricks like phantoms: 
here I am fucked
nightly by ghosts. They slide away when the light is full;
slither back. They are what or who I like to fuck.
They are something I can only see by mistake. 

I am stories above everything known : i am lightning rod /
I am load-bearing : Boston ancient : snow falling up.

There are doe-white suns up here that I cannot share. 
Not with the men or the ghosts or my father, 

I am wondering who will melt me here : this time :
Am I Icarus? Will I dare? I am close enough
to reach / but I will settle for only blushes of light : for hosts
who will treat me like a guest here : for ghosts.

Poem on Hospital Wifi

Biggg expansion of my sonnet from a few months ago. super personal but it’s pretty honest and thats why i’m posting it. TW for fam trauma and daddy issues heyyy;

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Boy Spit

I practice my signature like a child spitting
his name on the wood-bark and the lawn
one-billion times a boy but never enough
to word it quite so well : with the force of spit

I spit and trade spit : it is a magic thing;
A thing I dream of. A boy’s spit, well, it is his weapon
before he has arms to speak of or some
small hell to raise.    To want to be wrapped
in the arms of boys and to seek their spit;
their signature, is an abandonment of your

own : it is crossing out your own name : it is
dreaming of someone who looks just like you
covered in wood-bark and grass shit : I sit here
with a page full of my names and there is ink left in the pen.

[Short-term plan:]

Short-term plan: 

Before I even tell you what it is, I’ll tell you that I’m going to blame my father when it all goes south.

At a 7-11 somewhere in Boston : the one behind City Place where the junkified and moon-eyed go to get glared at, picking up ¢25 blow pops and Swisher Sweets: your favorite flavor. He : man-behind-the-counter is who will sell me my first pack of cigarettes / I will research them, carefully: my mother taught me to be that kind of shopper. I will ask for them like I’ve seen my father ask for them : with a becoming shyness dribbling out of a layer of bravado : he knows that he’s got heart disease and shouldn’t be doing this but he’s paying with cash so it’s almost like not buying it at all : I will pay with cash. I will smoke them like he smoke(d) them : with my ring-finger twitching and my eyes half-closed. I will smoke them while I talk on the phone with him, lucky-to-be-alive, you cannot feel or smell a man’s breath between 3,000 miles of Americana : too many confusing scents. I will smoke them and lie through my yellow-teeth about how old I was when I started smoking them. I will smoke them while I look fucking-cool, flirting at the fat college girls with pink hair and at the rows of beautiful college twinks with their winter coats : lined up on Boylston like little reminders or like little asprins : all of these things will be secrets. Down to the lint at the bottom of the pocket I keep myself in. If they are revealed : I will somehow tell my mother that I [simply] learn from the best and I will tear them up and toss them in the toilet. All that organic and tar will float there like sin-on-ice. I know that smell..

Sonnet 2

I fear the hard hilltop wind because of this house
of twigs. I lay lawful on this couch
of cat-claws; adjacent its twin : $550 of well-loved leather
and i’m thinking about something stupid like driving fast
or my father or my temporary organs : each are songs

full of anger. Somewhere above me
a crack sounds like a wild BB shot : nothing fatal.
I think It’s the central support beam. Oh, Its suburban burden!

It lives on top of a hill; We can see mountains and fireworks,
even on the days when people do fireworks.

I do not envy this house: It’s head of clouds and wicked wind
and rain and knocking birds. It’s burden. We burden:

and it can’t see the sunrise, even on the days when
the sun rises.