Wednesday, February 24, 2016


Two dozen rejections in a row?  Possibly.  I've actually lost count.  So it goes.  Here's an older piece in the meantime, from Poor Mojo:


an empty house on the
morning of the abortion

an empty hand in the
age of money

this is what becomes the past

these are the words that can
only ever be

pale memories of the actions

the weight of too many moments
spent waiting for the
moment to end

of too many rooms filled
with cold silence and ashes

your girlfriend's sister
getting dressed and telling you
it was a mistake

your best friend's wife
on her hands and knees

her tongue cut out or
a knife in your throat or the sound
of someone's daughter puking
in the street

your tires slashed
by a man you've never met

his wife banging on your door

at two in the morning
says all she wants to do is talk

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