the room was cold
and there were
gray flowers
of dampness blooming
all over the walls
He took off
his shoes and
the shoes were the
warmest things in
the room so the kitten
climbed into one of them
He sat on the
mattress in the corner
and petted the cat
in the shoe
He smiled and said
to the kitten, "At least
I have no debts."
Even God agreed
with him. He winked through
the hole in the
ceiling

He ate flowers.

this mentally challenged boy
from the countryside
I used to watch him
in the fields
when I visited my grandparents
as a kid
He was like an exotic thing
a wild beast chasing
static pray
They had no chance,
the flowers
he would assault them
with a killer's smile, frothing,
and would grab
and tear and rip them from
the stem and
would eat them

Nobody knew why
and the only explanation given
was that he was insane

then the men and women
who saw him would
scream at him
to stop and he would raise
his head and watch them
like a deer surprised by
headlights
Then he would spit the colorful
froth from his big mouth
and would run home
hopping and leaping like a horse
through the tall grass

He was mostly inoffensive,
this flower eating boy
but they all told me to stay away
from him and would
always chase him away when
he got too close

Time passed and I moved to the
city and went to school there
and stopped visiting the
countryside and its wonders
I got busy
and my busy life drove away the
magic and mystery of childhood

The flower eating boy is now but
a memory
neither good
nor bad
just strange, interesting

He doesn't eat flowers anymore
because he doesn't live in the
countryside anymore
No, from what I've heard
he's in some mental facility and it was
his last flowery meal that sent him there

I don't know,
maybe if they hanged signs with
"Don't wear flowers in your hair!"
around the village and the fields
that little girl would've been saved
and the village would still have its
magic beast.

This procurer of underage tail
made the Post, and then later, the Mail  
Let us sing our refrain
for recruiter Ghislaine:
we would like her detained without bail.

While her In-N-Out burger went cold,
Madame Maxwell was looking quite old.
Let her smile for the Times;
and then pay for her crimes
after all of her secrets are told.

depression is like
a house on fire

and my life is the house
and the depression is the fire

all my time is put into taming the
fire, and
sometimes i catch on fire

sometimes i just sit and watch it
as it dismantles my
home

and sends sparks up into
the air.

A child named Michel
plays in the middle of the street
He cuts my childhood in two
Lined by identical brown cottages.
Michel is now unlucky,
Sitting in a body bag
In a basement
Blood still pumping from his
Surgical defibrillator
Now Michel will live forever
Perhaps until the flying cars and until pigs make
Their vertical descent to both heaven and hell.
Now the house is a quiet house,
I only realize how loud Michel was,
Once he stopped altogether.
His parents sleep heavy,
Like their lives are over,
They are dead, dead, dead inside.
And so I smell the death
Which perfumes their shared residence,
In my guilty conscience,
I am glad that Michel is where he belongs.
Dead.
Michels parents preferred a way of life,
Where you just know that Michel had to know
his chance at death were plenty.
Michels parents took him up to the attic,
Where Michels father would **** him,
And mom would take pictures
Watching quietly.
I know this because our windows are parallel,
Because I saw Michel
Pale face across the middle of the floor,
Pleading, why won’t they **** me?