Tag Archives: poetry

You Can’t Afford to Be This Quiet

You Can’t Afford to be This Quiet

Honey and lemon
flow across my tongue
a hot toddy with a thick body
thicker, at least, than the rain
that swept into my mouth

earlier this evening
under the metal
doorway of an apartment building
whose walls you could eat off of.

This, when the sky was lighter
(And the violence too, at least I like to think)

Everything lighter with tea
and whiskey,
silence and space.

You can’t afford to be this quiet.

No really, you can’t afford it.
The rent is ridiculous.


I Saw Another Rabbit Today

He was plump

brown and beautiful

chewing on a carrot

ears like pillows

from the Marriot


Sam Samson is a rabbit.

photo (5)


Ode to the Storehouses of Empire, the Demon god Mammon, Black Friday





The only things left


are the rubber balls rocking inside an open metal cage

the porcelain teapots had no chance, neither did the plastic t-shirts, eel

lectric lectronics


The crowd will carry us

voluminous and entrancing

brace your elbows

crack your knuckles

asphyxiation will only take the weak


Washing the blood off entrance doors

she wipes her underpaid brow

picks up a hand

 tries to find whose torso it belongs to, not bad considering

it looks like two tornadoes

went dancing, then one got liquored up

bickered with the Barbie doll aisle,

now Barbie has one leg and a

little girl cries, shhhhs, capitalism


When we get home we put up lights

make a pie, admire the fights we attended for our children.


Notice: This Friday will require one sacrifice

human, employee or non

you can always blame someone else

shut your eyes

 listen to the trance of the black box

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Luke 9:62

Luke 9:62


he invited me to join

placed my eager hands upon the handle

such energy, yet I guided straight

lines so perfect computers would be jealous


from sunup to sundown I plowed

the sweat stinging

sweet lines of crystallized salt to lick

later when the air blew soft


I invited others to join me

called them from the joy inside

 of me


I left mother and father

let the dead bury their own


days folded into one another

time compressed




time stretched

days folded into one another


I wandered back to graves I left

pined for sisters I never knew


me, of

outside darkness the from them, called

me join to others, invited



was, but hard now

the stinging sweat

the brow unkempt

no longer did I sell in joy

to buy the field

from sunup to sundown

I couldn’t wait for it to end


my lines, crooked as the next

like drunken snakes upon the grass


my tired hands upon the handle

I slunk away

I looked back.







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You leave out the dinner

I do not think I want to eat anything

The summer is over

For whatever summer could be


I want to walk in the fountains

Feel my head in the rain


There was never a chance

Only coffee and trains


My head was a balloon

You were an angel

There were the demons

Stuck in my ribcage


I leave with the wine

Fall asleep to the sound

Wake up in a stupor

Go to bed in July 

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If only everything or nothing was as simple as avocados. I would lick you dry. Split you open. Put you on tacos, nachos and burritos. Mash you up for dip. Dip my chips into you. Take out your pit.

Avocados from California. Please.

Maybe too much traffic though. Yes. I think so.

I saw the farmer hand her one. She felt it good. Gave it a squeeze. Her brown hair getting in her eyes. Her face was a shadow, whispering. 


Where the Octopi Hide




Where the Octopi Hide


In dressers:

Beneath your folded underwear[1]. Eight legs stretching through the three[2]-hole fabric


Behind newsstands:[3]

Grocery store bags in hand, with a pair of sunglasses, leaning against a used grey van.[4] Don’t ask how its body was supported. It wasn’t.


In your esophagus:

Those late-nights when you can’t sleep[5], and feel something slippery inside you[6], suction cups against your ventricles, that’s it, they use your body[7] as a sarcophagus, right there in your esophagus, because they like to die in long stretches of tube that rhyme with ancient[8] Egyptian burial rituals.



[1] She is never coming back

[2] weeks since you last saw her

[3] it was the fourth. The papers claimed something about independence, freedom. things she ironically also exclaimed just last night, before midnight, with her beautiful black hair blowing across those red lips telling you it was “…”. You can’t even repeat it in your head. It began with an O and ended with an er

[4] You made love in there, next to used soda cans and bottles of fake spray tan

[5] even after a bottle of Nyquil

[6] and five glasses of jack

[7] she made you feel like you had eight legs and a head the size of your body,

[8] No more



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