Unfortunately, I have not wrote poetry
Fortunately, I have danced poetry
Spit poetry
**** poetry
broke poetry
smoked poetry
misguided poetry
sang poetry
and asked poetry for spare change
I took poetry on a date and didn’t call back
Spun poetry on my ring finger
to put it back in my mouth and continue to chew
I’ve crumpled poetry into a ball
and shown it to the stars of my waste bin
Fortunately, poetry hasn’t called me back
or asked, “how was your day?”
Fortunately, I’ve culled poetry without a quill
and selected poetry to see the tracks
of an un-poetic railway
like a jail, poetry can’t see the bars
I brought poetry down, down, down
and smothered poetry onto myself
got caught in the rain
the snow
the sun
and sand
I repeat poetry
I repeat poetry as the way
the way
to nowhere poetry
I never ended it with poetry
I’ve never ended poetry.
Did I do it right?

There’s a tiny turquoise sequin that lies
on my black and white bathroom tile

a tiny piece of you, Sea Queen
poised only for me

Sea Queen, it’s by that towel you last used
the same one I used

Sea Queen, I’ll try to explain
my chronicles in nautical miles

before I’m forced to die
with my sequin shoes on

but, I hallucinate land and I sail to drown
in your gown of now intangible sequins

I wouldn’t mind, Sea Queen,
if my eye’s palette could handle the paillettes’

reflection through a sea of sequins
but instead it’s holograms I chase

they’re a part of me and I guard them carefully
like your sequin that lies

on my white bathroom tile
next to the pink towel you used

before your heart resembled a crumpled piece of paper
and I got distracted by the sequins, Sea Queen.

I climbed to search my attic yesterday
my brother my father came to humbly help
I told myself I would never fall in
insulation if I tread lightly enough

I climbed to find fruit once
in an apple tree we found
I told myself there was just one
I want and I only need it

There was a man who asked me for change
on the streets of New Orleans
he once told me
about his mom, Melody

She climbed each day
to put 37 years of storms
that looked like sunsets
behind her

Maybe we dodge change
to brighten up
our own attics and caskets
he said

Well I told myself
I want my eulogy to mean
more than the sound
of day to day traffic
the flicker of train lights
or the cleaning
of attics

The doctors came right in
they smile to say I most likely
won’t live
but my money is good here

Georgie, the orderly, cut me wide open
like a barber with a Parkinson’s disorder
a scalpel with Stockholm Syndrome
a race for euthanasia’s abduction

A table of speed, a speed table
and a stop sign of
bad decisions after supper
so stay awake

T-bone steaks for dinner that night
smashed potatoes and
a mother’s kiss goodbye
followed by the Jaws of Life

It was wrong wasn’t it, Eliot
to be left pinned
and wriggling against a wall
        because there will be time

for the mermaids to come and go
for my pants to remain rolled
and for steel to strengthen my bones
or so I’m told

but, I cant get that sound you make
out of my head, it’s connected to my body
which is connected to the problem
large enough for me

still—no one seems to be noticing
the bad bone in my body, the flat line of this fly
with a fading smile
       God has nice tile.

five minutes from suicide’s stigma I was
scribbling words to describe my own demise
but not these you see about boomerang generations
of leeches who return to comfort—safety after selfish pillage and plight

At least that’s what my father cried

What stopped me that October day was a ***
a Fool, if you will, younger than I residing on 15th and 3rd  
he clutched tightly to trains into cities and drank blue Mad Dog 20/20
while vomiting tales of sloppy wrists and joblessness

He said, “Don’t do this you need more stability!”

The rest of that day I defied gravity
as I could ski away from rock bottom
because a ***, a traveler, taught me in Autumn
more about a chemical reaction of gold

Than middle school teachers could

Five years to the day, yesterday,
I saw him outside a bank and couldn’t help but think
about blue drink, ******* sentiments and consequences
late for a shift his apron pressed because chemical addiction

Forced a need for paper, not communication.

I once wondered what the Devil reads before he goes to sleep in Prada sheets
I found he wears white but feeds the least hungry

Go ahead and eat he told me, it’s food for thought food for death
I can’t catch my breath or brain they brought me here

One dance with the Devil done by 12 I feel so lucky
My bet with Judas just jarred the line call the ******

He stabbed the Devil’s back too but this time for a quid
We left to ***** and loot like teens with stolen credit cards

Maxed out and blacked out murderers with no trust
****, I must be Satan’s rebellious son.

Now reigning in the fire I bring the flames higher
Than they’ve ever been but my back wont be stabbed like his.