the fluorescent light, shaped like memory
tries hard to stay on, to be of use
in the garage
in the attic
in the kitchen.
the rest of this town just stays off-
a stage behind a curtain, a door removed from its hinges.
and the people dancing on the other end
are orphans in the open, abandoned and excited-
and I am in love with weekend democracy.

moving on..

her face is red like cancer,
I pretend not to notice
but burst like diamonds from the mine
and now her secret is aggressive
and chases me through the acid baths
and death camps of Baghdad.
we are at war.
we are bullets inside a terrible machine.
we are deus ex machina.

moving on..

once you were beautiful,
undrugged and free of molestation. God still rode on
training wheels and pretty prayers-
gee baby, ya remember the days?
a youthful version before the *******,
before the black Iris grew,
before the sparks turned blue.
O soft poison. O innocent spew,
I love you.