Monday, June 12, 2017

Strawberry Moon

 No, there isn't
 room for everyone at this table.
 The strawberries and cream
 won't feed you. The sticky
 aftertaste of warm sparkling
 wine won't keep this family

 together. Your home
 isn't theirs. Their pride
 isn't yours. But still

 under the same moon.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Homesick Alien

 Pink plush raccoons lined up
 in their composite packaging:
 some already
 freed, almost
 owned, almost
 loved, almost

 a memory of our foolish games.
 Arisen from metal shelves,
 pink plastic eyes, holding
 on. Pretend play

 like when

 any road
 leads over the seven hills of Somerville,
 any sunrise
 lights up the Atlantic.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

O Be Joyful

 O be joyful:
 For none of this you made
 and none of this needs you.

 You may walk in light,
 unaccounted for;
 you may share in your friends' blessings,
 uninvited; and today,
 no one will come to collect your sins.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Gender Warrior

 I am no one's savior
 but my own.

 What you call survival,
 what you call inspiration
 is merely the refusal to vacate
 the space I've been assigned:

 and for every word
 twenty others still die.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Homeland Security

 A clear view across the dirt, the naked branches.
 A house not ruled by fear and lies:
 Where we're many, not one.
 Never just one, never again.

Sunday, December 18, 2016


 Sing simplicity, sing history,
 the things not tainted
 by complicated evils,
 not twisted into allure.

 Evil and allure'll still be here

 But so will we,
 feasting on survival,
 thriving on curiosity.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

Faint Smell of Cigarettes

 The faint smell of cigarettes
 on the boi in the seat in front of me:

 A faint, fake memory of the time
 when we could smoke on trains
 (did we actually?)
 when our clothes stank
 and we were so gloriously
 unbothered by this world.

 Not that I'd smoke now
 (believing it'd return me
 to this open, empty future).

Monday, September 26, 2016


 This planet will burn long before her sun.

 Inside the fences, though,
 her death will be calm, dignified,
 a mirror of all colors,
 a vision of dust, salt, and dry grass.

 (O, and if you can afford to travel north
 the woods will still breathe September rains;
 the evening lawns will still smell
 of rotting apples...)