Saturday, December 20, 2014


chasing headlights down december
back roads, not yet 6:30 and
already full dark

half-moon and sleeping houses

this man with
a mouthful of poison

wants to show you how easy it is to
hurt you
then wants you to beg for more

absolute zero when the knife goes in

small wooden cross on the
living room wall
cop pulls the trigger and
the child is dead and how far do you
have to look to find someone

for how much longer will we
allow ourselves to
be a nation of assholes?

been a long
fucking time already



Sunday, November 02, 2014

self portrait w/ nude, on fire

and then late afternoon shadows and
the stuttering scratch of
leaves down forgotten streets 

the shadows of lovers, of
unwanted children and forsaken saints 

god and then no
god and then
all of the days i waste waiting to
                              see you again 

an empty room filled with ordinary ghosts and
no one says we have to be here but
no one gives us permission to leave 

this is called the art of standing still 

this is pollock in the
seconds before his death 

not acceptance but panic and
not understanding, not

not ever

and i keep telling you this but
you still aren’t there

Sunday, October 12, 2014




Head of a Woman, 1938 by Joan Miro

after the age of giants

And this is not nothing, this sky, these
clouds, these hills, and it’s not the
whole story because nothing ever is,
but listen.  Distance is an important thing.
Forty feet from the bridge to the tracks
below.  100 miles between the woman’s
body and her husband’s faith.  And have
you ever tried defining yourself by
something other than sorrow or fear?
Will you crawl from lover to lover with
nothing to offer but fading bruises
and the promise of more?

It’s okay to pause before you answer,
to consider, to weight your options. 
It’s okay to accept the fact that we’ve
never really meant anything to each other.
This is why the sunlight casts shadows.
Why time only moves in one direction.
The moment arrives one hundred
million times a day, and then it passes.
The song is forgotten.  I wanted to
sing it to you, but you were married.
You were crying.  It was a sound
just like any other.