I don’t think that I’ll age well. I was counting on poetry to keep me young like some kind of island or some shit that gives the mind a much needed respite… but look at Cummings: never worked a straight job; traveled to Europe frequently; given a generous allowance; had someone else father his child; …
Category Archive: Poetry
Jul 07
I always drive over potholes
leave the mayonnaise out overnight, blue lid flung carelessly on a table of toast crumbs I drip mustard on the white shirt you washed just last night and hung up in your corner of the closet I drop cookies in the bottom of the oven let my cheese bubble over the blue bowl, onto the …
Jul 07
Song From a Slowly Sinking Ship
…and when she’s gone, door clicking shut behind her, I crawl into the bathroom to hover over the sink and puke (a strange new daily ritual), then stop and stare into that pale portrait that is my ghostly reflection painted dead center onto the mirror’s frame. I study every line, every grey hair, every crimson …
Jul 07
Readjusting
And he was thrust back out Into the world, his life, all of it as half-assed and broken as before, the day too short and bright again. He muddled through it as he always had; the job and the wife, the places to go and things to do, dutifully saying hello and thank you while …
Jul 07
Like A Radio With Moving Pictures
I dreamt I had a box in my living room, like a radio with moving pictures, and it was holding me hostage (in my Barcalounger). I dreamt my box was made in the image of a rich man a fat man a man with halitosis in his voice (I could smell it through my ears). …
Jul 07
the rich make the rest of us
accomplice, often gladly enough so gladly, we take pride in their easy rides up our hard knockers, they slip us mickeys, we text them g thanks in the bra less morning. –Bree
Jul 07
Medea of Flies
She dreams the faucet pours hair— oily and thick, almost animal— into the polished porcelain of the bathroom sink. When she wakes, she is aware of a body, a young girl buried in the plumbing beneath the house. The newspapers say nothing. While he’s at work, she folds his shirts and watches a hurricane waltz …
Jul 07
What Are Holidays But Days
Why not just get fucked up The Worlds gonna end anyway Not the way the media keeps spinning it Besides everything is impermanent Even the media Besides there is christmas money & ghosts glide so easily through the room Winter’s cold depression settling in Everything white & dead Like we needed something to be depressed …
Jul 07
Anything but a black umbrella
walks in bobs among highrises, glassed mansion hotels, ancient steeples. Under striped-rainbow pastel, my face beams where others’ glare gloomy and drab, morose funerals beneath shrouds of black waves of colorless shelters and mourning cloaks, gathering in mantles with the thunderheads. A stray ambient light coming only from one uncontrollable pastel rainbow refusing to be …