POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
i do not want to wait until it’s too late

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

Dear Deer in the Compost Pile

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

Aging Punks

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

robertson quay

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

Finding My Fix

I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.

A Way of Seeing

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

First

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

“Artifact,” as Translated from Gluberhöff’s Lexicon

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

The River

I myself should never have been born

REVENGE SCENE

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

Lavandula

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

Several someones

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

if detritus is all i’m made up of

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

The Body is a Sin

The sin is existing.

Unerased | Steep Steps

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

Back Suplex

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

Black Ghosts of Ponderosa on a Silhouette of Hill

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

Getting Postcards From a Piano Showroom

The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…