Read my latest story, "The All-Nighter", at 52|250.

Who Lives in There

even the fire extinguisher remains
shimmering in the window
whether gas or foam
   was released
         or sleep  never had the chance
     what kind of fire

                       abandoned this home
she doesn't ask

                       and doesn't give me time to speak
kissing away my words
                  and taking my hand through the door
that doesn't need to be opened anymore

we sit on the tea-stained sofa
her lips on my clavicle
my shirt  over my head
                          and I don't ask

what was the question again

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Having a Hammer Isn’t Enough

 somewhere in the arc you have to relax
stop aiming                             trust
             all that metal's swinging
             towards that metal point
                 you want to make
            make damp scent of oak rise
                 as its threaded shaft digs in
and not towards your thumb

                                       I've broken every finger
         they healed   I still type    100 wpm 

you might need a hundred bags of ice
if you make a mistake
                                before you choose to trust
but nothing's getting done as long as you keep choking
that hammer

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Bathed In

blood black nails in perfect toes
painted for contrast
                               to hide your bruise
                             bring it to the surface
trapped in white
snow      soap      concrete
                                          your toes
                 alone can move

at first it was warm & safe
                                         everything cools
                          turns stiff
             crushes
                                   turn to fights
         go screaming down the street
           until sobs pin you to the bed
                       or were those his hands?

you try to reach the tap
to make the bath the way it used to be
but if you c(oul)d p(our) it    you'd just be alcoholic
so settle      into foam            calm waves

Last Summer

  cars baked in the stream
   pineapple sun had been up so long
  even dirt deep beneath rapid stones
  went dry
                  people stayed inside
  until their windows were blown out
then their bones were b|own away
|anding like a silk sheet
over pots of brittled p|ants

                 if the hose had anything left
we c[oul]d moisten the soil
        our share of the dead
    w[oul]d hold in the drink

our pumpkins, our sunflowers, our tomatoes
have left perfectly fertile zeroes
no sense to call them seeds that can no longer grow

                                 we devour them before each other
                                 we'll eat our loved ones first

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