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She looks down as I leave not seeing that I look up and notice that the white birch in her living room with its fake birds glued on the branches, stuck and immobile, and its fallen leaves swept away and the rest left dusty, bends away from the sunlight. * My mouth is dry while … Continue reading
The rain falls on a summer’s day for it doesn’t know any better. * There is sun in my eyes so I cannot see that it is a beautiful morning where the birds do sing and the plants do grow and there’s a bustle going on around me and that will go on with out me … Continue reading
She took my poems out from my fingers and spread them across my lips so that each letter I smeared she smeared onto me first with her look or her heels or her cheeks or her self. I’m stained. * Covers fall in between us and she has never been more distant. Is the bed … Continue reading
You are always useful, even when bloated with the dread and emptiness that makes you crawl outside, find a utility pole, clawing up and up with fingernails uncut and hair adrift like the logs you saw swimming in the ocean when you were six, sawed redwoods with no life jackets and no branches and leaves, just like … Continue reading
The early bird gets the worm But is it late Or is it early When the sun climbs Over a mouth of darkness And I am awake With worms underneath my feet – The grass a salad of wetness And hungry dirt that licks My soles Into a soon-to-be imprint That I’ll only see When it … Continue reading
Give me prose, short, nasty, crumbling, while I wish for the rocketry of poetry. * The third law states That for every apple There is a tree And a man who Sits underneath it with A belly full of Fruit that grows into Seeds of thought that Leave him wondering what Body is pulling him. * … Continue reading
I have lost a train for I never built a track – Only a tunnel that ate up the light inside. * I birth universes from the biggest bangs and the smallest ones too. I create us with our poems, stories, and books. I shape art for future generations for my shape is art of … Continue reading
How have you changed? I still write at 0200, which is a sign that I might never go to sleep. I still sleep, which is a sign that I might never wake. I still wake and still prefer the lilacs in the rain and the summer’s yellow paint over a laundry line dotted with red underwear. … Continue reading
The following aren’t very good, but global warming promises to heat things up at the very least. * The winter rots In long shadows, Seeding familiar pots Of strange sorrows. A bike emerges From the snow; Croci scourges – The grass needs a mow. Where has winter gone? I am caught in eternal summer. Look … Continue reading
My wounds open mouths that drool red wine drunk from a night when bottles become telescopes to look onto the dark sky, a mouth onto itself, with teeth beaming and a tongue that lick oceans into submission, pulsing back to me while my mouth sores become infected, cavities that have no fill, only healing and … Continue reading
Mizpellt wurdz 