History of Indignity
They had weed, and I had a history of indignity. Three of them pulled up, the car screeching and lurching, then parked crookedly by the swing-bell glass door to the brick-front store where I was buying a sixer and smokes. I knew them from the club where we’d waste our ...
wings of brass
What will we do with these years remaining, love? Now that all the gods are slain by our introspection, now that sunsets' once playful pink-cotton foretells only night’s panicked, chirping-insect void, what shall we do with the stilled-scream horror of ourselves, as it sits lonesome and warted, hunched and spiny, ...
Atop the Shimmer
Most of what I am to you now, to anyone, is the drunken musk of memory; I am aware, and was-- before the sun considered rising over our wishfulness. Choose your poem, choose your sunshine-afternoon and pin its photo to the wall, and try, love, try-- not to look too ...
Solemnity
I slept, or endeavored as poems danced their drunken dances white-tooth gaiety a rustling cacophony aye, each seducing the next or whichever-- might seem amicable I slept, or endeavored as the raucous powder-hair affair roared and chortled spinning too drunk to care but not drunk enough to forget solemnity-- tho ...
golden-afternoon memory
Even as you are gone from what we were, only the shadowy-well ache remaining, this howling void stays-- the most potent reminder-- these words, all that I am, wish only to fill the emptiness; these words wish-- if only once, if only for the rustling leaf-turn of a golden-afternoon memory, ...
Dreaming of Hope
I suppose that when we go, we all go still owing a debt somewhere, a loan unpaid, a good turn still un-returned, a forgiveness not granted, a wrong never made right. And some would say that we get what we’ve got coming, but we never do. We get what we get ...
Strawberry Dreams
The soil, moist and soft, recalled safe memories; its cool touch embraced my underside as I lay, drifting. It is in these times that we are free-- loose the chains of gods and governments, loose the hold of hunger and strife; it is in the surrealism, the weightless space-drift of ...
No lies remained
Autumn-evening’s sunshine, painting her skin in hues of young-hope’s memories, couldn’t change what she’d become. Greasy locks of grayed yellow fell over a round, scar-pocked face. Anger seethed, both hot and cold, as our eyes met, though she looked away. It wasn’t the type of anger that passes quickly. If ...
thrust into the rainbow’s fable
we didn't agree to this we were merely born here thrust into the rainbow's fable pushed from the red-fibrous wombs where we'd slumbered spat out, squint-eyed and screaming into the spinning-steel machinery white wolves watch the grumbling churn from the swaying-grass periphery tasting the smell of our mortality the blood ...
