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For as long as John could remember, he loved to blow up things. It started back in grade school with firecrackers and cherry bombs—he would put them in toys, tin cans, shit like that to see what would happen. Then he advanced to stronger stuff, M-80s. Skip and…
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"Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels."--William Carlos WilliamsThere is something beautiful I want to say to you that doesn't seem to make much more sense in a box of clever words like this one. It feels closer to…
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There is something preposterous /
about existing in a universe so vast: /
Such a big playground for such tiny children, /
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I keep the book when the lessons are done, go through the pages Momma skipped over...
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Often I want to kiss their lips
Drink in every word they have written
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Me leaving is not the confirmation of all your fears. It is not. It's because of them.
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Did you really think you were going to cure cancer with that poem?
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“Honorable condominium association members,” the leader begins. “I apologize for not having a PowerPoint slide show tonight, but me and my muchachos travel light.”
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The woman was dancing, holding her bottle in the air as she slowly turned around, blocking the way to the exit. “I asked Miss Pansy Blossom if she would wing a reel,” she sang.
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The river was frigid. Branches, empty cans, and used condoms float past me.I lost my jacket when I became snagged on a tree branch. My shoes are gone. My skin is blue-grey, as are my lips and fingernails. I've been face-down in this river for two…
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There it was
One abandoned high heel shoe on the sidewalk
Could have been
Some kind of robbery
Though
Maybe it was just
The beginning of the
Walk of shame
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" No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing."--T.S. EliotI think, okay now I know, the poem's starting to wear off. But I'm alive, at least…
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Obituaries aren’t as much fun
as they used to be.
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We light cigarettes, take turns putting them out on each other's arms, legs, anywhere hard without a mark. It's living, he says, it's better to know you're alive than feel nothing at all. My brother is two years older than you, I was thinking on Tuesday,…
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then all crawl out from the wreckage
to begin a dance lasts all night
so by morning we'll be tired
surprised we're still upright
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The beer on the shore is
Lapping at the foam of memory
And I can’t sit still
Until I take my pill
Karma Wash, Hog Wash and Swill
I went to the top of the heap
At the bottom of the Hill
I saw a bum’s sign that read:
“Will eat dog food for
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There's one graveyard for the part-timers and another for the full-timers. Ours is a little nicer, but we're still all going to hell. Do you remember St. Petersburg? No, you're memory's not that good.
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the gambling priest stands in the morning fog/red moon hangs in the sky/the army of seven houses marches over the hill
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It didn't matter if they burned or not.
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Sonia banks on hidden things in the minds of other people, whereas I bank on what I know.
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The Bearcat 101 was a police scanner popular with a certain type during in the 1970s. Daddy was that exact type. I found the Bearcat in his apartment after he passed. His illness was a common one, the process gradual, implacable. No red and blue…
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I wonder what it would be like to dog-paddle in the middle of the ocean.
I wonder how Jean Auguste Ingres got the flesh tones for “Odalisque.”
I wonder if bees have dreams.
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Sorrow fences with fear and questions
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we hover black as carrion birds with a glut empty need seems to me she's fell as thee and knows exactly where we posture anxiously spitting falsehoods on cue twittering like snipes cause there's nothing left to do she might have spent her whole life just
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134497
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I COULD always sleep. Go "home" now and sleep. My body and my fetus—who complain of this torture—would appreciate sleep. I have something to do that is not sleep. I have something to do that is not sleep. I have to try to wake.
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One day, Dasha confessed to Igor that she had an incurable illness: Purple emptiness.
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Memory is unreliable, of course-/
re-coloring savored scenes-/
paler here, more saturated there-
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Fingers scrabble idly at pocket seams, forage between teeth, grasp for tepid cups, patter a drumbeat on knees.
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