What do you do when you know you’re going to die?
I mean I know I’m not invincible, but death
is not in my sights.
It could be lurking around the bend
or hidden behind the trees, but
I don’t have to face it,
not yet at least.
If death was a deer in the
middle of the ro...
To sting the young worker’s exposed fresh back;
Digging down in the hole to pass his days
Hoping eventually to find his track.
From up on the rim, his father does gaze
Once himself a boy who dug in the pit,
“Do not succumb to w...
I would write an obituary for the four word infection called hope,
parasitic at its prime and poisonous at its primitive,
if I believed that ink stained fingertips could craft an antidote.
I stay up waiting by the phone to hear the empty drone of the line,
I paint my n...
I was driving through Kirkwood, NY
on a Sunday morning.
Scenic lines of strip clubs
dot the highway next to
the abandoned insane asylum
(live! girls! DO NOT ENTER)-
Rusted train tracks bend
and shimmy along state route 17-
when I think about me
I don’t think of anything.
I listen to the whisper of
melting snow- the snap of spring and
a muddy surrender under my feet
I imagine I am a quiet place, a still pond,
a nook to sit and think, absent of complexity
and try to drown this sinking feel...