July Poem 26: That Fucking Monopoly Game

Just my luck. A bank error in my favor.

More money than we could possibly have.

We went out for dinner and drinks before

The groceries and diapers. Wife ignored my

Mention the shorter line. God fucking damn!

Last minute cigarettes. The longest line

In Mississippi. The fucking tobacco line.

The “I ain’t got enough money to feed

My own kids, but I’m sure as hell going

To fill my lungs with tar” line. When the bank

Fucks up, they take back their money on their

Terms. Not yours. But that’s just it. Isn’t it?

Life is that fucking Monopoly game.

You just spend until were all fucking broke.

August Poem 18: Professional Protester

In applying for this position, I

Rose pledging phantom scented seraphim.

I rose being gravely injured. I rose

To bash the head with a mortal sneeze. To

Promote the burning flag’s area. To

Make me the perfect pick. To contradict

The customer service pro. The lefty

Way of life. The ever heart of Google.

I am a dirt venture. I am any

Countryside attraction where there was a

Raccoon to mount. I am the city. I

Am the taxidermist. I am the stink

Wafting from the carcass. Pregnant. Bloated.

You are only a short drive from either.

August Poem 16: Weekend with Dad

What is it to be a son? To be a

Tool to make the ladies swoon. To make them

Gather in the hospital hallway. To

Have them pinch your cheeks. To blush when they call

You handsome. To be confused when they call

You, a child, sexy. To be fodder

as your father takes in your praises. As

He lets the ladies know that he has you

For the weekend. That he is virile. That

He is eligible. That he has good

Strong genes. That he can father a handsome

Child. That he is dutiful. That he is

Loving. That he would bring his son to work

So he could flirt with the younger ladies.

July Poem 24

Destruction’s creation into motion.

The world’s first begins for posterity.

At the distant edges, the thing moves fast—

Faster as it converges. I am the

Center. A universal spiral. All

Matter historian, void. Moving to

Coalesce, spin in a vortex, to gain

Because I recognize even them. It


Spins in reds, oranges, and whites. Once down

My face, there is a tension. My chest. Lost.

I can feel the tears streaming, only this

Tightness of sorrow. I am lying face

On my center. I remember the old

Arthritic knuckles and the wrinkles and


The wrinkled hands. My wrinkled hands. My hands.

Covered. In red all— The friends dead. Write down

The results. Preserve the universe. This

Moment is the event that causes me.



July Poem 13: The Room for Mysticism


The original answer.

To blame for the empathy

And magic in my life.


Like games engaging a conspiracy

Keeping us fat and listless.


Not like cellphones,

A higher standard of kinship.

Only the cellphone.

Categorized as the wheel of being.


Or the internet,

The instructor.


It has an odd ability

To personify the people

That taught it to think.

July Poem 4: It Doesn’t Mean What You Think it Means


It Doesn’t Mean What You Think it Means


That word?

The one you said right now?

Yeah, I said it…

I was a child once.

Of course I said it

And more.

Every word that could offend.

And ones I made up.

I visited the depths

And came back.

I know you think I’m thinking it now.

But I’m not.

I came back stronger

With a valuable knowledge.

You see it in my eyes

And you envy it.

That ability for darkness

That makes me a man.