Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Here Comes A Regular


 Blessed are the hopeless
 stumbling beneath their own weight,
 hiding in the farthest corner.

 Blessed are the hopeless,
 carrying their bottles
 every day of the week.

 Blessed are the hopeless
 and their poimenics of despair:
 no one to see more clearly
 what hope won't do for you.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Porchlight / The Mummy's Hand


 So stubborn the porchlight
 over your open door.
 So harsh your voice,
 so hollow your promises
 that we'll rise from this depth
 eventually.

 So cold your hand on mine.
 So stubborn your love.

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

The Day The Aliens Came


 Relocate to the land of fast friends.
 Expect they'll be eager to
 sound the tortured depths
 of your complex continental character.

 When that doesn't work
 (without a word)
 get up and leave
 (without a word).

 Always doubt yourself.
 Always doubt everyone else's
 sincerity. Still trust them
 blindly. Expose
 nothing. Never once
 doubt the sanity of that approach.

Thursday, October 26, 2017

The Bad Doctor


 You see, your problem
 (in the bluntest terms)
 is that you speak quite poorly:

 haltingly, still confusing
 all the rules.
 Interspersed with sobs.

 You see, if you used
 your language like we do
 (let the meaningless flow
 through you like wine, find sex)
 then maybe
 you wouldn't be so bothered
 by yourself.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Star Charts


 A mute inventory.
 Dots eternally thrown onto dark blue;
 the scorpion chasing Orion
 away
 from the din of your drunk voice,
 so unpredictable, so uncanny.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

7/4


 When
 was this home? Hardly
 I recognize the heavy shelves,
 dust gathering on the books
 we read together
 once.

 Weatherworn the awning;
 the kitchen table deserted;
 you rarely leave the ez chair now,
 skipping from channel to channel to
 white noise.

 Buried in clutter
 the porch where I didn't yet
 dare to kiss you. You forget;
 you forget that you forget,
 curse imaginary friends,
 invent new enemies. How
 did I miss your mean streak?

 I don't think
 we'll have fireworks
 this year.

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

 y'all
 cry
 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.