The Last: A Poem

acid rain forest

He pulled his lips away and asked,

“What a tender time it’s been,

But, darling, I have known the last;

Nowhere there do you fit in.”


My retort with clever spin:

“Little do you know, sweet man,

It is only your chagrin

Which trails behind tonight’s plan.”


As, towards the door, he ran,

I rested hands with pinching pout.

“Your run can never hold your span;

Your breath can never silence shout.”


But what else is the room about?

If not the cavern that he leaves,

If not the lies behind the tout,

If not the tender that he grieves?


But what else lies in hard heart thieves?

If not the empty at her side,

If not the veins the hollow cleaves,

If not the running, fleeing wide?


These Lightning Fingertips: A Poem


I dreamt once of laying under the strobes of heart

in that dream

the atoms of my body rolled to distant starlights

distant rests


I felt my toes vanish into the electric sparkling

(peace finally after the struggle) and

that silent firework twinkled its way up

my ankles,

my hips


When the dissolve (resolve)

hit my lungs

it took my air and broke it up

when it took my heart

it stole my blood


it hit my eyes and I

gave it my brain


and when finally, finally

I was scattered

across infinity finally, finally

my useless body knew peace

among the starlight


A dream indeed

Mood: A Poem

I am that wasted excess

when you’ve just finished peeling an apple and the fruit rests with its rind resting around it

like a girl in a red dress sitting patiently in a field of clovers and daffodils

and you caress the body but leave the shrapnel skin for the disposal and you never wonder why

I am that surreal moment

when your head leans backwards and strands of hair lilt from your balmy skin

falling with the coursing river of gravity into the coroner’s hand

and you look up at his gentle gesture and realize that your starlight body is in his latex grasp and you wonder why

I am that frayed memory

when you notice that your long-loved scarf is unraveling at the ends so you lift the scissors and cut off the useless bits

and you try to sew it back together but realize that its crimson loveliness is collateral

when your starlight tears teeter down and lilt

like a thousand pastel flowers mapping the night sky you begin to wonder why

(I am that face in your mind)

These Four Walls: A Poem


these four walls hold nothing for me.

i am no fortress. i am nothing special or defined. and yet the walls want me to be. they demand it.

i am no such demigod.

perhaps i can paint. perhaps i can be a novelist, a petty pretty novelist. perhaps shit can grow wings and fly away.

these four walls give me a blank stare. the longer i stare back, the more confident i am that i do not wish to adorn them with anything.

they are an absence, i discover. a disgusting hole that blocks the way.

i cannot fulfill their demands, and neither can they fulfill mine. nothing can disguise the void that holds nothing for me.

the only thing to do is to grab these four walls in bloodied fists and tear them down.

so i bloody my knuckles.