on deck

the heavy bat first, this swing in the word to say near me but pushing through me. take the han, the word flood implies direction, gravity's wear. knowing the dams hold their breath above the border, put bets here before the pitch, pop-fly or walk or homer note the corners that punished ---your father evidently worth your mother once--- and the world owes us a caricature, take me into the sun. unconsciously, I will explain.



pumping    pumping    pumping

fingers     fingers





pumping     pumping

wings    wings    wings


Projections of Projections of Her

By: Genevieve N. Williams

Unease bumps inside the body of a fly
that bumps against an unknown wall
in an unknown room. It’s Chinatown,
Chicago. I’ve locked myself in
the McDonald’s bathroom. A hand-dryer

hangs by two cords: home
and someplace else. A fight ends
as quickly as it began, and I open the door
to a calm that exists only after unspeakable things.
An artificial waterfall tilts to the left, and blue

nights rise from grease and gorgeous women.
I can’t say why, but I want to be the man
in the bottom of a dried-up well, who thinks
he can gain the answer to everything
if only the sun will burn perfect circles

onto his hands. Or maybe I just want
to lick the shadows from your walls,
your yellow-wallpapered walls,
your imaginary endings. Later,
I will throw them up into the toilet.

Who am I kidding? I will not take
on any more of your little deaths,
your half-cocked confessions. I will
not force the handgun from your hands
or lie by the couch to keep you

from ____________. An empty bottle
of McCormick’s sits in your freezer door,
and I have better things to do than imagine a you.
When I left, I realized you never knew me
from the projections of her. You never knew

that I never knew you, either – not really.
We were forever each other’s mothers –
or some bit of history that never existed. Who am I
to say you were wrong for calling me
a whore? I know an artist

who says words are meaningless,
that we assign them power when
they needn’t be anything but shapes on paper.
He’s a pseudo-intellectual hipster cop-out,
but that doesn’t matter. What matters is this:

A man stands on top of a rock, pregnant
with a lobster that is really his mother.
He rests his hand on his uterus,
closes his eyes to the wind.
I share a card table with a woman

whose ears are cow’s ears
and whose feet are pig’s feet.
We’re in the middle of a gravel road.
She smiles a knowing smile.
A foo dog charges through

my apartment door, morphs
into an aging monk, and slouches
against the kitchen counter.
He asks for a glass of water.
My father is there. In my waking

state, a black shadow swooshes
from the alcove of 20s Showgirl.
We have all seen it/him/her
and we’re not saying anything
to anybody else about it.

The rabbits are eating our peas.
Nothing will remain as it was before.
It’s possible to pass on traumas
to our children, DNA changed
forever by epigenetic expressions.

It’s also possible to pass on positive
shifts. I like to imagine myself
happy, though my parents
lived through unspeakable things.
I dream myself into wells of absurdity

and wallow in shallow waters.
A falcon tips into the gloved hand
of a little girl, and a fly dies
on my headboard. She has
the weightless body of a barn swallow.


but the meat is too aged

you open me up with tongue and knife
pulling out my dreambeats
my prime pieces
my life drumming doldroms

teasing me they say honey feels
sticky and tight but it won’t hurt

I taste like rain
and sugarcubes on your fingers
you say sugar feels
nous ne sommes pas un pour l'autre

you squeeze my flesh tight
flail around light me up melt me down

everyone takes their favorite part
a carcass in the wild loses its form
under a supermoon bones bleach
je ne sais pas qui je suis



I missed the super moon
I'm a dead overlord

I'll watch you take
three sips of wine
on a loop

Biking home I smelled  lily of the valley                                           semen                                gasoline

I say things while biking

je ne sais pas
muguet de bois Semen


That is
My glass

Cunt heart
Dead zone

Are you bleeding or laughing

whispers way too quietly

People keep


cut here for 92

come and have a drink with me
sit down and talk a while
the dignity of this office must be preserved

time spent ousted
uncomfortable but calm
spinning rain
cycling around the park
like an old puerto rican man
on a fastback

drinking rumchata
eating fried meat
and drenched in a
glow not unlike vaseline

took a shower today
trimmed my beard
there wasn't weed in there this time
but not for lack of trying

halle berry
beyonce knowles

and the thunder rolls


still haven't figured out what cure song that is

it's 1991
i'm 1991
i'm listening to 1991
i'm fairly sure i became self aware in 1991

other things that happened:
broke an arm
developed an addiction to earl grey

i don't like honey in my tea though
and i don't like anything in my tea
or any sort of palette altering
bullshit, because it's hard enough as it is
to try and mask something so intrinsically
perfect or complex or entirely simple or
all together fucked up

i stand behind the notion that you rarely ever need more than four on any particular floor

but you need four
in 1991 we only needed four
now we only need four
i count in four HOWEVER i like to count by fives
or tens, my older brother sees sevens everywhere
glad i didn't get that gene
seven sucks