james o

Sick, evil fucking idiots. Not just monstrous but deeply stupid. The people of Iran deserve our solidarity.

things every single republican president of your lifetime has done

- started a war in the middle east
- completely destroyed the economy

There are many ways to leave and not all of them involve disappearing into yourself. Some are easy as (_____). Say it: flight. (_____), etymology archery, the passage of days, tail of a dart, a selection of premier whiskeys arrayed in a neat line of honeyed glass. In every word I see a pair of wings. In every wing I’m frotting language, my bare thighs ink-shadow against the blank page. I have left home every time I’ve come close to making one. What happens to the (_____) when I admit I sexualize myself to say what’s impossible? What’s impossible. It isn’t a question. It isn’t a compass, no road-map that only points to my knuckle hair, my muffin top, my gapped front teeth. I hold (____) in my mouth like a too-big bite of stale yogurt; (_____) in my hands, a fishing rod in a bucket where I pull out star after star after star. Everyone gets to live in this poem, even the faggots. I am tired of being coy. I am tired of being. What words do I need, to live; what shape of language, knitted or hammered or left on a nude branch, my mouth cupping dove eggs, children left to the pity of wind. My lips tankard my hands. My hands mugging (_____). When I pathetic fallacy, I mean it: the clouds are a thousand blemishes on the eating-disorder sky; the willow trees branches rise up to blanket (_____), some poetic fool sleeping beneath the thousand unformed violins strung with summer leaves. These nascent, nadir days, these bright apocalypse days, my relationship to hope the same as a soccer mom’s to her minivan’s brake pads. Again, I’ve made a home. Again, I’m bilingual in almost. Next time, wink on my nose tip, constellations bubbling my cheeks, I want to be anything: your moon, your sun, your daughter. (_____) means as you read this, I’m gone again, alive forever. I’ll survive either way. I’m knocking on your door.

a white queer person in glasses with long brown hair. they're wearing a blue denim shirt and standing in front of foliage with red flowers. their face is smiling, turned toward the sun, and a blue, yellow, and green lorikeet is perched on their shoulder facing the camera

I have a poem online in the new edition of Gulf Coast ✨

Thank you so much!

Thank you Catherine! 💙

Thank you Rick! 💛

There are many ways to leave and not all of them involve disappearing into yourself. Some are easy as (_____). Say it: flight. (_____), etymology archery, the passage of days, tail of a dart, a selection of premier whiskeys arrayed in a neat line of honeyed glass. In every word I see a pair of wings. In every wing I’m frotting language, my bare thighs ink-shadow against the blank page. I have left home every time I’ve come close to making one. What happens to the (_____) when I admit I sexualize myself to say what’s impossible? What’s impossible. It isn’t a question. It isn’t a compass, no road-map that only points to my knuckle hair, my muffin top, my gapped front teeth. I hold (____) in my mouth like a too-big bite of stale yogurt; (_____) in my hands, a fishing rod in a bucket where I pull out star after star after star. Everyone gets to live in this poem, even the faggots. I am tired of being coy. I am tired of being. What words do I need, to live; what shape of language, knitted or hammered or left on a nude branch, my mouth cupping dove eggs, children left to the pity of wind. My lips tankard my hands. My hands mugging (_____). When I pathetic fallacy, I mean it: the clouds are a thousand blemishes on the eating-disorder sky; the willow trees branches rise up to blanket (_____), some poetic fool sleeping beneath the thousand unformed violins strung with summer leaves. These nascent, nadir days, these bright apocalypse days, my relationship to hope the same as a soccer mom’s to her minivan’s brake pads. Again, I’ve made a home. Again, I’m bilingual in almost. Next time, wink on my nose tip, constellations bubbling my cheeks, I want to be anything: your moon, your sun, your daughter. (_____) means as you read this, I’m gone again, alive forever. I’ll survive either way. I’m knocking on your door.

a white queer person in glasses with long brown hair. they're wearing a blue denim shirt and standing in front of foliage with red flowers. their face is smiling, turned toward the sun, and a blue, yellow, and green lorikeet is perched on their shoulder facing the camera

I have a poem online in the new edition of Gulf Coast ✨

New call for work: THE PLEASURE ISSUE

+ Opens May 15
+ Deadline: June 13 for everyone, for BIPOC writers: June 20

The Pleasure Issue will be an issue interrogating the varying politics of pleasure via the difference between the erotic and the pornographic

More: beestungmag.com/special-call...

The title of the poem "Memento Vivere". Below the title is Carson Sandell and the date 18 Feb 2026. Below that is a photo of Yucca with blue skies and clouds in the background. The picture is attributed to Michael Yantis on Unsplash.

I’m most alive those time-stretched mornings where mayflies drop in death and the dried swarm smells of wharf-wood, where clouds are hand-raked and copper hedgerows mirror the limpness of Mojave sand, a small brown owl crawls back in the cool burrow, full stomached, from its beak a two-note coo gusts through yucca spine, juniper bark, longhorn beetles eat elderberry leaves in the valley. I miss that valley heat, the scent of manure and semi-truck diesel, of chlorine and my mother’s pool-wet cheek. my neighbor with a shovel scrapes a possum off the road, iron skips across asphalt, black eyes like stigmatas, gray-brown fur left in the street, a ratking of fingers reach out its stomach and like this underbelly of young death, we long for our mothers to breathe again, strong as bird lime.

My poem "Memento Vivere" is published in @theoffingmag.bsky.social I'm forever grateful to the editors and readers who advocated and accepted this piece.

Apollo's poems are so fucking great, I got to hear them read at Tin House and it was electric. A poet I always am glad to find new poems from recently

Over on threads someone just use ai;dr and we all need to adopt that right quick

Interview: L Scully in conversation with sterling-elizabeth arcadia — fifth wheel press L Scully is a living writer. They are also, first and foremost, a lover. Sterling-Elizabeth Arcadia is a disabled trans writer across genres. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Rutgers—Camd...

my first interview as interviews editor with @fifthwheelpress.bsky.social is out now! w/ the poet L Scully about their book, Self-Romancing, published by
@michelletea.bsky.social / Dopamine Books. You can buy their book through the link in the interview!

@jk_rowling · Feb 2 This is beyond silly. Neither I, nor anybody on my team, ever met, communicated with or invited Jeffrey Epstein to anything. https://x.com/girlslasttourr/girlslasttourrr/status/2018093016548778327

Justice.gov Epstein Files official Harry Potter and the Cursed Child play invite to Jeffrey Epstein

Peggy Siegal Company: "Hi just liet us know where you like to send the tickets. Rhys Kimmitt "the tickets are on their way to Peggy's office. Please deal with Lila to arrange pickup" CC Jeffrey Epstein "Rhys please deal with Jeffrey Epstein's assistant [redacted] She will send a messenger to pick up his two dinner tickets. Thanks so much! xoxo Peggy"

To Jeffrey Epstein Ryhs Kimmitt Marisa Frank and Lila Walker from Peggy "To whom this may concern Rhys...what was not clear?" "I was very explicit with my staff and you about TWO tickets for the DINNER for Jeffrey Epstein. What genius filled the ticket order? Why wasn't his name on the DINNER list at the door? What genius thought my friend would not have a plus one when we ordered TWO tickets. What robot at the door would not let him in? This has ruined what was a perfect everning for all of us. I am incredibly emarabassed by the rigid behavior of some child minded door guard. Jeffrey is a captain of international finance and a close personal friend of mine. I know this was not done on purpose but it still is terribly upsetting. Please find out who did this and send an apology note. Thank you so much. Peggy. Jeffrey...of all nights, I left my two phones home, I was actually looking for you all night, I was with Soon-Yi and she thought you were having dinner with her husband. I am so very sorry. What a screw up.

JK Rowling has not tweeted since openly denying that her team invited the world's most notorious child rapist to a kid's play despite evidence directly disproving her claims

Hello Mahmood, I have sent you a little money. Wishing peace to you and your family ❤️

got paid so I sent some money to people at the protests in Minnesota. Their bravery in the face of such hatred and violence buoys my heart, and it is an honor to help them in some small, material way

Papilio Polyxenes; Or Second Attempt at Metamorphosis With a refrain from Adam Neely My tongue tolls in the bronze of my mouth. I want you to suck sound out of the soft of my inner thigh. My shell. Pain feels good. Should I admit myself in the night? I submit myself in the night. I grow a tail & swallow it before sunrise. Repetition legitimizes. I grow a tail & swallow it before sunrise. Bones thicken my throat. I tremble in pain & it sounds like a song, my music a mimicry: repetition legitimizes. I want you to change with me, under covers which crinkle like leaves. Stare long enough at my razor burn, & skin reveals eyes; this is a defense mechanism to avoid contact. This is a defense mechanism: to avoid contact, I change. When I put my clothes on, I want you to take me. When I take my clothes off, I want you to give me back

Forgot to post this: one of my favorite sonnets was recently reprinted in the blog for @fifthwheelpress.bsky.social 🦋

an image of this following poem on paper: In the Dark, The Arms Look Like Crosses All night long they sling the fireman’s axes in sideways arcs to chop the saguaro down, the two boys who’d dared each other to do it. They sweat & drink light beer swiped from a parent’s pantry and their pale skin shines like tossed aside bottle caps beneath the moon. They kiss. They were dared to do it. They cut. Like green flesh, the cactus oozes slick juice, the sound of the long-trapped rain released in a whisper. The wren holes whistle the night wind, the wrens themselves now ghosts. After, when the deed is done, one of the boys hangs his axe in the garage and goes to bed. The other says his name slowly under his breath: James, James. Saint James, Saint James, Saint James. This night will last forever, and he thanks God it must be so. This night will last forever. She won’t remember until she’s old.

I am fortunate to have a poem in the new (and amazing!) issue of @shopoetryjournal.bsky.social 🌵

this rocks !!

Thank you so much for reading!

this is the most outwardly dangerous administration to people living in america. abolish ICE

thank you so much!

an image of this following poem on paper: In the Dark, The Arms Look Like Crosses All night long they sling the fireman’s axes in sideways arcs to chop the saguaro down, the two boys who’d dared each other to do it. They sweat & drink light beer swiped from a parent’s pantry and their pale skin shines like tossed aside bottle caps beneath the moon. They kiss. They were dared to do it. They cut. Like green flesh, the cactus oozes slick juice, the sound of the long-trapped rain released in a whisper. The wren holes whistle the night wind, the wrens themselves now ghosts. After, when the deed is done, one of the boys hangs his axe in the garage and goes to bed. The other says his name slowly under his breath: James, James. Saint James, Saint James, Saint James. This night will last forever, and he thanks God it must be so. This night will last forever. She won’t remember until she’s old.

I am fortunate to have a poem in the new (and amazing!) issue of @shopoetryjournal.bsky.social 🌵

sterling-elizabeth arcadia 5 poems

signed the contract for my debut full length poetry collection! DRIVER forthcoming in 2027 from Airlie Press! here are some poems from it! open.substack.com/pub/boxxpres...

myself and @selizabeth.bsky.social are co-editing a special edition of GARLAND focused on ekphrasis! Send us your poems about art, music, video games, posters--anything /after/ ! Deadline end of January 💜

successfully hit my reading goal (10,000 pages) for the first year since illness messed up my brain and stamina for reading. hell yeah

goal next year is 100 books, which I think should come out to a little less than double the page count, which I'm excited to at least aim for

not to get hopeful around the holidays but my MS is out to ten places and I just submitted PhD applications to six universities, trying to feel positive about both 💚

playing cards with my family and my father in law suddenly says “may a diseased yak urinate on your term paper” lmao

really enjoying poetry's ability to go anywhere very sharply. like yes, let's start this poem with SSRIs. I'm gonna talk about aardwolves, changing the font of commas in news articles; how many numb poets does it take to change a lightbulb?; death, death, death. AI will never write like this

an image of sonoran mountains. a sunset is descending over them, a gradient of purple to peachy orange. various cacti and desert life can be seen in the foreground

purple mountains, peach mountains

I have a little sonnet in this! Excited to show my poem to you all—and it’s in such marvelous company <3