Friday, May 26, 2023

small poem to fill an empty page

 

 

summer of ’92, before the 

flood, before the abortion, before she

tells me whose baby it is

 

a rusting trailer at

the edge of a cornfield

 

buzz of cicadas, neverending rumble of

trains passing in the distance and she says her

husband ignores her or

he yells at her

 

says he hasn’t fucked her in

almost three years,

doesn’t even hit her anymore, and

what we’re waiting for is winter

 

the possibility of escape that

never becomes a reality

 

the inevitable future

which is only ever a less hopeful

version of the defeated past





Monday, May 15, 2023

Monday, May 01, 2023

a love poem from the upstate desert, late february

 

and now nothing means anything

 

north of the city, late february, wastelands and

industrial parks and nothing quite living

and nothing quite dead

 

each sunfilled day an

infinite weight on the chest

 

each passing moment, and

what to do but drive?

 

shades of luminous grey layered over

shades of luminous grey, and that

the rain here tastes like poison

 

that you learn to accept it

 

and this is the plan, okay?

 

this is the nothing from nothing that

will come to define all of our lives

 

not freedom but the

freedom to consume

 

the need for more even in this

manmade wasteland, and have i failed my

children or was it my own children

who failed me?

 

i’m told the distinction matters

 

i’m told that all wars can be won,

but who are you willing to sacrifice?

 

who do you love more

than yourself?

 

everyone lies at

some point