Kissoon's Loop

There is no prince. None of flesh, blood, or bone. He lives in the home between my ears-- unreachable I need a fantasy lover. Those ones ...

What to do about the desire for skin-on-skin contact, a need for the fresh gloss of an oxytocin dose? When a certain kind of love-- absent t...

I keep my memories in strands of hair, and when I need to forget I go to the shears; when I want to start over, I force baldness. Su...

Beneath the cracking concrete flats, The Earth is (still) there. In the low hum of winter: Grass, upspringing (still) from ruptured capil...

And I sit here, asking myself-- What must it be like, to come from money? Who might I be if not for my struggles, my grief? What might I hav...

Every deletion, each small, cold-controlled backwards push: a minute death,  a sinking further inwards. I have done it again ; ...

It is Now that I pontificate upon the totality of Forever-- its clutches settling slowly into the corded nape of my neck, seeping into th...