Sonnet
no is not a metaphor
the blue towel is still wet
nothing has happened & keeps
happening but someone is crying
it’s either me or my coffee mug
of whiskey outside
there are 2 crickets the only 2 left
in this city & they currently are
not speaking to one another
for good enough reasons I think
toast again then some more toast
this time with butter instead of jam
my friends are getting better
at hurting each other
Sleep Paralysis
the room shut off
candles un-ignited yet
smell of berries & cream
can he smell them, the
visitor? his slant nose
cut as if with twine. no.
which is why he presses
his grey hand against my
chest so much weight
so much fire in his sex-
less eyes as I try to come
to & scream my body in
to wake. but I cannot yell.
just spit & gurgle until sleep
[Their Whispers Descend Until Stop the Fire]
Paints gloss &
Earths shake at burn in hell faggot
Your umbrellas draw
Brittle to battle
Your sprays buckle the barnside
Never at home at home
The corral spills motion
Sinks skin theories sinks footprints
Delta sinking o-o-o-o
But the arcade burns
I imagine that’s what stops the rain
& oh the commons are on fire
I can hear all 8 of the horses yell for me
Their whispers descend until stop the fire
I don’t know if I love you
I know I love you
*
RJ Ingram lives in Oakland and Greensboro. He is a poetry and creative nonfiction MFA candidate at Saint Mary’s College of California and is a poetry and social media editor at Omnidawn Publishing. His cat Brenda lost a leg protesting war in the south. Follow him @RJEquality.