Spoon fed sweet comfort
In our mouths can make us doze
Which feels so nice
Like lying on pillows in a limo
Being driven, in our softest dreams,
Along a gorgeous path
To a bed where a smile and soothing words
Cross any missing meaning
Behind our backs.
Poetry Pacific, 2013
There are no real solids and Buckminister Fuller
Explained that love is a kind of metaphysical gravity
So, as love begins, being swells and surges,
Like when you emerged from foam onto silica,
And I emitted an oscillation through space time,
Along with a transfer of energy, and you waved back.
The New Poet, 2013
Acid in the bloodstream.
My skeleton melts.
I go through the window.
I will not fear the wind.
Passengers snap off
Vertebrae as I go.
Main Street Rag, 2016
To The Story of My Life:
Why have you left me?
If you think I misused you, show me how-
Did I confuse your plot, defuse your drama,
Or defect into another genre? No, and now
I am just a single word, alone in an empty book
Even the footnotes have flown away
Even the title has departed
And my single word is no pun at all.
But I tell you, you are not the only story in the world!
I could be in Hamlet!
I could be in King Lear!
I could be in Othello! I’ve had offers!
However, we have already been together
On so many endeavours
And for so many years
That we are almost one.
If you come back, if you accept my repentance,
I will serve my function, your diction and your tone,
I will stick to the script, making your words my sentence,
And your fiction my own.
故事,你跑到哪里去啊? 你为什么离开了我? 我是否虐待了你？破坏你的情
节的逻辑呢？ 不走向你必然的结论？ 还是你以为我对你不忠，跟其它的故事发生
Crazy Grandma Rising
Crazy grandma says her planet’s closed,
And shut the door behind you.
She is past being calmed
By doctors music nurses children
That will sit with her and read with her,
Sounding out the words she slurs
And those she has forgotten.
They are past her or she is past them
Past Citalopram and Olanzapine
Past toothbrushing and toileting
These meals this home this shit. This calming music
Before death so she storms out bird
Flying through the winter breeze
Over a bridge
Into a café,
Where she sits, shivers, and inhales,
Smiling gently though the shelter of her shut eyes.
Then she lets her vision fly out
And watches it flapping away
As she blinks,
Clawing with her eyes at the world.
American Journal of Poetry, 2017
Walking up a mountain, drunk on the lack of three days sleep
Vines slowly embrace the veins of cracked marble
And the rocks, and this whole hillside of
Fish soup merchants, as on the walkway of this mountain
Tiny children dragged by mothers
Drag the leashes of their tongues, and there are
The wrinkled undereyes of old men in baggy cotton,
Fanning themselves, and they are old enough
Not to know what to think anymore,
There is the pendulum clinking of pockets,
Bottles emptying mouths,
Mountain people eating, sitting on mats on grass on stones,
A woman slowly drinking coffee and she has ragged hair
(Why are you describing my hair? she asks)
She is picking the grass,
And I walk up this mountain,
People move in and out of doors,
Behind a slowly shutting door a hand moves on a curtain,
As the rocks
On the side of this mountain darken,
The night weaving back windows
Onto all our houses, and there is that yelling,
What is it, let’s
Yell, all of us, let’s buy fish soup, let’s sit on our roofs,
On this mountain, where is this mountain,
And where are you,
Let’s drink on Tuesday,
As it can be Tuesday, as it can be tomorrow or yesterday or today,
So tell me old men sitting on the steps tell me where
Where is that trap door?
Let's Have A Feeling
Angry just refuses to be angry.
I’m finally happy, angry says,
Now I know that one must accept oneself.
But you’re not accepting yourself,
Acceptance says, you’re becoming me,
Which is making me become angry.
And of course happy is not happy –
You’re not me either! she yells,
I’ve never been angry! I’m happy!
December 2016, Lighten Up Online
The Dinner Party
Inside many self-fulfilling heads
The prophesy of a dinner party
Sets its own table.
Pubescent gremlins groom.
Middle-aged monsters in wigs wield status-stuffed cheesecakes.
Immortal banker frogs shuffle and deal the invitations.
Small tells begin to mark the dinner table,
Assigning seats and sides
For the food fight of secrets signs.
Then everyone slips into the peel of their human form,
Trips into their house, closes the door forever, and sings for food,
Winking out through the bars and webs of tact.
Literary Juice, 2012, nominated for Pushcart Prize
Night of the Living Head
The educated differ from the uneducated as much as the living from the dead.
You thought you were just going through the life
Of a university student-
Through the grind of homework, the game of grades,
A dorm room of sex and squalor
When one day that learning paid off, you awoke,
And the world revealed itself to you in a flash
And you saw souls trapped in textbooks,
Gothic ghosts in a latte séance summoning themselves,
The class conflicts of the existential underworld
Deconstructed by graduate ghouls,
Office imps in cubicle tombs stapling the autopsies of lives,
And the mobs of zombies in rabid fraternities hunting for juicy flesh-
So to survive you pretended to be one of them,
Mastered the mask and put in your mime
Until one day that you found yourself
Drooling, rotting, growling in frustration,
Walking with your head half off
Your body contorted and tweaking
Leaking all over yourself
Crying down the endless hallways with bloodshot eyes,
Pounding on vending machines and yelling at them, pleading,
Waiting for a response, a signal, a sign
Doing anything to let the Machine know that it had taken your coin
While you searched, quested for the real, the truly alive,
For something, anything to gnaw on-
Until the next day you awoke, resigned
To drag your headache in with the other ironic corpses
Being hoarded with psychic prods into horrific halls
To sit below bow-tied vampires
These professors on podiums that promoted Descartes
And Cartesian doubt about your existence
Which was much too easy for you particularly
Having become quite the philosophical zombie already.
Red Fez, 2012
I step into a vanilla restaurant
To eat with my eyes
And start chewing on the waiter
Who is coming with some tenderizer.
He grills me with a smile
That wants both well-cooked and soft like tofu
But only leaves me scrambling hard
From the tasteless commerce in his sweetened calefaction.
Then he continues with the artificial flavor
In crunching a query through his teeth
And I tell him I’ll climb a vodka on the rocks
And make it tall cause I’m thirsty for a change of music.
Then he withdraws
While sprouting garnish and spouting it
With puffery into a bunch of crockery
So I sharp eye him a skewer:
Enough already with kneading my dough
You’ll get your bread on the table
If you play your meat straight and bring me my drink.
Then, in a clearer sauce, I ask him to etc. it over and please thank you.
So when the waiter jaunts back with my drink
He uncorks the specials in a translucid tone
Of vegetative calmness with a manipulative dressing
Of very salty syllables.
Then, with a caustic bow,
He tells me to order my expectations
By the number. And he’ll return.
So I sit with my music and ponder my choices,
Hearing the overhead fan as it spins hello, hello and hello,
And I tell it thank you for the softer touch,
And I’ll try not to stare at your pole dance,
Hoping at least that can pass for table manners.
Penny Ante Feud, 2014