Archive | December, 2014

Tiny Babies

29 Dec


tiny babies

little highway veins
working together
w/ shiny carburetor lungs
defying the unimportance
of everything

young enough still
to regard each footstep
as a holy mission

brand new summers
wait to pick you up
at the train station

you take a seat
next to the days
you’ll remember best




(from my book Beautiful Graveyards, Farfalla Press)



Poor Me

28 Dec


poor me

life overhears everything
the sounds of

your voice on a telephone

about calendars and your
need to let go

rainbows go color blind
rivers get lost

birds become allergic
to the sky

the sun gets laid

the ground puts on
a jacket

dandelions mistake pepsi
for coke

crayons lose their way
back to the wax

butterflies de-evolve into walking
sticks of margarine

and where am I in all
of this

I’m the guy standing at the
front of the line

it’s my turn to lose you

tree lines catch pneumonia and develop
an aversion for pixie sticks

I don’t want to let you




(from my book Beautiful Graveyards, Farfalla Press)

You’re Beautiful and I’m Alone

26 Dec


You’re Beautiful and I’m Alone

you’re beautiful and I’m alone
and the one thing we have
in common is that there’s
not one god-damned thing
we can do about it




(from my book Beautiful Graveyards, Farfalla Press)


I Hate This Job

19 Dec


I Hate This Job


This job of being dumped by you

is one which every morning

I arrive early for

and every night I clock out late

my love requires that I be on call

and so it calls me

when I can’t reach your office

I set up base camp

beside an abandoned mini van

between a burning lightbulb factory

and an incomplete parking garage

at the end of every bar

that will still have me

sketch long lines along the margins

of your pink slip


a broken heart

is worse than one hundred

cantankerous foremen


I’ve told them

“I quit, you viscous fuckers!”

more times than Cagney resented Lacey

They smoke thick cigars, knowing

damn well that I’m not that serious

grunting authoritatively like a wild geese fest

“Get back to work you fucking clown.”




(from my book Avenge me. Baobob Tree Press)

Love vs. The Outrageous Bar Tab

16 Dec


love vs. the outrageous bar tab

a soft footed American
walked into an Italian bar w/ bright
sunlight behind him and
threw his hands up in the air

“My heart has been ambushed!”
he screamed like a sentient dartboard
bleeding, “These wounds are from Tokyo!”

his grief spoke w/ an English accent
his wounds fluent in Japanese

he asked the bartender for
a double shot of Crown Royal
w/ a Diet Coke chaser

downed the entire order with
sad eyes blinking/nerves quivering
horror and quickly asked for another

“Yasaon’a sasoku onnifujiyuw
sabishii and bachiatari.” he said,

warm whisky traveling down his
throat like a battered gondola
floating towards shelter

“She was more beautiful than my safety.”




(from my book Paper Thin, Farfalla Press/McMillan & Parrish)

We Are More Than That Pile Of Laundry

14 Dec


we are more than that pile of laundry


we are more than that pile of laundry

we never talk about

and we are better than


re-runs of old sitcoms

about un-layable cousins

sharing fart jokes


while pretending

to sift through a large gash

of make believe mail


I’ve got my black suit on

it used to go with your pretty

pencil box and loose ends


now it doesn’t go with shit


thus begins a new era

of post-mortem innocence


can’t we make up again?

the kind of making up

that involves genitals?


because darling,


we are more than these things

that you no longer love about me


we are more than these things

that I will always still love

about you




(from my book Avenge me. Baobob Tree Press)

‘Night Quentin

13 Dec


‘Night Quentin

I lie on top of our old
futon mattress not sleeping
shaking like some mad pile
of rebuked biscuits and gravy
tossed into a cold alley after
all the restaurants close and passed
over by things like stray dogs
and particular raccoons
teeth chattering primitively
thoughts fumbling one into
the other like glass bulls fighting
over the over-exaggerated myth
of their involvement with
fragile china shops
I rest my head on a lopsided
pile of spaghetti and count rats
until the moon splits and an
all out fight breaks out underneath
the dumpster
pub tips knifing spoiled salmon
french fries drafting patriotic slogans
onto the brick of dead walls
using the wet blood of mashed potatoes
black bean burgers burned at
the General Zod like insistence of the steak
broccoli mercilessly raped dejur-like
by the soup of the day
explosions followed by the sound
of recent gun fire
I can just make out through the smoke
the subtle outlines of your peas as they
abandon my carrots
leaving me to shake here
until morning
quaking on top of our old futon mattress
wondering how long it will take you
before you start calling your new place
without me home


(from my book Avenge me. Baobob Tree Press)