What You Were Before

•March 28, 2020 • Leave a Comment

There is a door to the afterlife; it’s guarded by a serpent. And whenever you come back to life – the garden nymphs are certain that their blooming brings you in, and their fragrance masks your solvence. So pour another fireball (I think that I deserve it) – just to catch a glimpse of you undressing underneath the evening curtains.

Do you know what you were before? Because I think I saw you. Your new face doesn’t get it, sure, but if we’re being honest I remember you from past lives – from the gas stations and sonnets – too hard to put a label on, too shifty to respond but when you’re gone there is a pathway that gets overgrown with weeds. And when you’re back and smiling happily the shepherd’s purse recedes and I can’t be the only one who knows.





Do you remember what you were before? You meant something to me.


•March 5, 2019 • Leave a Comment

What did you say when you fell through the breeze, landing broken – crushed bones, smashed up on the reef?

They find debris off the coast of australia and new zealand and they tally off the reasons that a scallywag would need them to run inventory mondays when the “open” sign’s not on, or to take vitamins depleted in the form of sexy salt and I have so much Im not doing; it extends towards infinite; I have a thousand story startings and a penchant for bullshit and it’s as true as it is fiction; it’s as vaguely superstitious as having both feet up while driving when you cross a railroad track.

Maybe she forgot her good luck charm, little thing shaped like a wing – left it home to be forgotten when they auctioned everything after deciding that was ballgame – call it done and let’s go home. A little atoll is an awful place to die on, all alone.

The Lord God Missed the Top Step

•September 1, 2018 • Leave a Comment

God said – “Fuck this shit” – I’m beginning to believe that allowing just a little bit of sinning is a rock slide, topside hurricane of awful – he told me all this and took a big swig from a bottle of novocaine liqueur at the shitty strip mall store and he was texting some used up, twice passed around whore and it was 11 for the bucket and 2.50 for the fuck it shot of jameson that no one wanted – a sharp burn in the coughing, a loss of critical decision skills – a loss of oh I dont know, ambition? God said god I feel sorry for the children I feel sorry for myself and for anyone else thats living its too hard and too expensive its too thankless and pretentious i am starting this thing up again a week from this past sunday.


•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?