From Things to Do in Hell, a poetry collection, which will be published next month by Coffee House Press.
The airplane inside us was running out of pretzels
We took the drugs in the morning so we could see at night
All day clinging to ghastly seaweed on the naked internet ocean
We thought, okay, neglect equals geography
As our habits grew unrecognizable so far from the strobe
And cold menace of a quivering if
What I didn’t say was I was worried you might think
I was fine but insufficient
A total dick with wet cuffs like Zebulon Pike
…