•September 3, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I’m sorry, my little sweet babes, in a couple of days I wont even want to play my guitars; I will frequent my bars and theyll asked whats changed – it’s a shame: I would love to be up forever and always but I know Ill get tired, there’s a bed where Ill stay til twilight – sweating, nervous, most delighted for a cough or a twitch in the stomach to call out of living for a sweet brief while



•March 7, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Poured myself off of the metro with a case of motion sickness, died a thousand times while watching the tail lights fade into crickets hissing static over attics scattering more light pollution – dreamt of grabbing people coffees, heavy doors that lead to rooms where I had never been before.

Poured myself a rather stiff one, two days later – fresh prescription I was filling as the ink had barely finished drying. Sigh.

Little Green Apples

•July 12, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Little green apples (some are red).

Market was frozen in a black and white polaroid;

a deaf dog is barking at the wind.


Mirrored lips are matching, two are yours-

and other boys would love to be where I’ve just been.


I like the soft things better now. I was foolish. I was stupid. But there is a certain stillness at the center of the universe, where the lottery makes payments with a million tired dollars and we shrug and curse our luck and tear the useless numbers up.


It is probably more hopeless than that.


Play the record where the room was not entirely soundproofed: hear the crickets caught in cobwebs, hear the 18-wheelers moving freight and waiters between shifts smoking their menthol cigarettes with no regrets for their inclusion, nor a small shred of delusion that there’s any life till 2 and then it’s let’s get fucked up quick.


You have this look today and yesterday and ever since I’ve noticed that blocks everything except you out and you’re all that’s in focus –


Little green apples (with some red

but most not yet).

The sunset light was golden through the mesh of a screened-in deck.

How the Damned Got Damned, part 4

•July 7, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Persephone deigned to stay a small season in hell. Sneaking out into spring’s morning while the reigning king was sleeping, she had cuts about her feet from tiny pebbles and sharp brambles and bruises shaped like handprints on her thighs where quick demands like ‘do it faster’ had been met. A seed for every second, till the final toll was sold and she was let back to the fields where she had grown up as a girl; I saw her walking over wheat grass where the flimsy stalks stayed straight, I spied her sleeping off a hangover on the surface of a lake – I should face punishments myself, and share my own season in hell –

Maybe that’s where I am now?

[A Bicycle-Drawn Passerine]

•June 30, 2016 • Leave a Comment

A bicycle-drawn passerine dawned basal respirations – the toll of course of which and how and then and who and wait a minute – any doubt of finding polar oppositions or magnetic indiscrepancies would somehow lessen the insistence and effect.

Baby, how some dreams are sensorially mischievous is practically achievable by proxy to the regions, hydro-oxygens to spots that with manipulation glee and you are post-narcotic dreams: auditory, with no seams to show construction; god I loved you.

God I so so very loved you.

An Unrefractive Girl

•June 16, 2016 • Leave a Comment

She could minimize the glare, god bless her; I swear I could stare at her various dresses for hours and still not be able to guess what colour they were – above her, a small yellow halo (I always suggested was due to her sainthood, but she protested not worse than the first time she turned to invite me for decidedly unsaintly things in a backseat) but she minimized glare; she degaussed all my screens and she will go on to be perfect and not think of me again.

Atheist Love Letter

•June 12, 2016 • Leave a Comment

When God made the world in your image, he shivered. And woe to the worlds orbiting beyond your dominion. I have cut through swathes of Hell and come to blows with wicked boatmen; I’ve ascended without oxygen, sank dark leagues into the ocean, and you are still beyond a mystery: the one peak pointed out to me unclimbable, you sigh and poor deniable young suitors heave weak, desperate sighs –

We should be flying to Moscow now. I’ll be half-drunk and you’ll be passed out with a copy of a travel guide that picks out the lowest prices on hotels, while your handwritten notes illuminate the outlines.