A ghostly harvest is upon us.
Taxes and national debt
draw seeping green from my pores
and Wall Street thoughts from my ears.
Everyone everywhere
is sick.
No one can get a word in and
Money talks.

On a Wednesday night, I think of you.
You’re my grandmother’s type of girl.
Your kindness reminds me of my grandfather
and he would’ve told me to take good care of you.
“Be all for her,” he told me in a dream last night
when I drew myself up sketched out
next to you.

And I know that you’re a good girl.
I swear I do.
You’re in your bed, off your feet,
the cushion is empty next to me.
The ice melts in the malt and I salt
these pity wounds.

Honey, was I the wine when you wanted rye?
Baby, does my tongue lick a changing mind?
You pour from my fingers in a fall,
sky turns black out my window and kids scream.
You consume every corner of my mind,
but I don’t mind.

So be balanced, if that’s what you have to do,
but lean my way.
Thoughts of you comfort me ‘til break of day.

night fell asleep waiting
for my departure.
the highway was empty at 5
in the morning
and the sunrise felt personal.

2 cigarettes left in a yellow box,
Ryan Adams, Rocky Votolato,
and John Coltrane filled the car.
my head was light and the coffee
i swallowed complained it was too cold
inside of my insides.

i can never slow down.

my uncle told me my face gets more
defined every time.
my aunt said my jaw looks a bit broken.
my grandmother was silent.

but at least my parents were proud
that i left so early to make that
******* final.

it's over.
the flings.
the ballads.
the effort.
it's all an atomic bomb in my head
and i don't ever take cover.
watching while they pass out black daisies

i leave my body for you.

work is over
for everyone
but me.
i'm left alone
at my desk,
the only light
coming from my computer screen.

it speaks to me:

"what the ****
are you staring at?"

i get up and leave.

our skin is
in the way.