bite me,
so you did.
with pine slivers
plucked from vertical thrones by an unpolished stone,
you plunged
(hapless heathen),
becoming the ripple that would knock charon to the floor.
the ark bowed down,
drenching us all in the needles of your sunken oar.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
night bursts open
egg sack spills
tadpoles wriggling
dead light
no Eye
keep screaming.
there's no sound in space.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 3:43 AM UTC
Bifurcated, broken thing,
longing to belong again,
hangs with hangmen from a string
along a wall of wallowing.
Speak of pain, he speaks no more
but rasps his voice against the door.
Save me, sir, what is in-store?
Salesmen smile and take the floor.
Cauterized with spit 'til dry
lies the spider with the fly.
Of one, blood made two one-alike.
Awry, awry, what's left is right.
Lonesome at last what alone begins,
ten hundred is but ten handfuls of ten.
The hunted, hungered will soon bends
as all are lost as all will end.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
We make scratching posts of cats,
call it nature’s design
as if God were the sun and to save our eyes
we turned our voices to the moon,
singing to the shadow of a bigger man.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC
I don't
want stray
dog freedom,
people bring
dogs home.
I do
want stray
cat freedom,
people leave
them free
to roam.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
Yesterday, I misread the word 'matinee' as 'manitee'
and was filled with a curious glee.
My disappointment upon mistake's discovery
were as if I myself had been a manitee
who'd thought, finally, the world has noticed me.
But so it is the rare must remain
unseen and mistaken, or else refrain
from inspiring what wonder they could not otherwise sustain
should their absence cease to breed hunger,
and hunger, greater gain.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
Sunset smoked itself a desert fire.
Somewhere across the Atlantic,
you were busy painting your own horizon
when the steps of morning met the sea.
That night you learned clocks don't really tick,
just shiver and sigh.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
This morning, I dream of a birch tree bench
upon which she strews jars of sea glass,
filled with blues and greens or something inbetween.
Sunlight shifting like prismarine snakeskin,
shed where sky meets eye, dyes the white wood underneath
in bisecting lines that ripple and breathe.
Thumbing at sea glass, I see her smile, circa redress,
in a pile of polaroids passed over the wood by
hands neither she nor I possess.
And then I see me, my head leaned into hers,
two gray trees grown too free. Hairs tangle and end
centimeters from the edge of the bed.
We look
together.
That’s when I cry.
Beneath two trees planted too close,
below silver halide wiping blue and green from her eyes,
in black ink that's yet to dry, she leaves a note
that I can’t read
because
this is a dream
and we were the lie.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
we all have our reasons for not being able to breathe.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC