Monthly Archives: February 2007


The mother’s hand
reaching for her daughter
the cheap purple flower
the rolled date sweet
the lamb meat wrapped
in a heavy brown bag.

The mother’s hand
reaching for her daughter
the red dirt avenue
the crumbling store walls
the mural of Saddam
splayed with bullets.

The mother’s hand
reaching for her daughter
the lightning from the earth
the quakes from the sky
the feet of angry men
running near, shouting.

The mother’s hand
reaching for her daughter
the warm blood
the glazed brown eyes
the white dress crimson
against the child’s stiff body.


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Bert Defeated and Worn

You might not know this:
Sesame Street is real.
Bert is a barista at an overpriced coffeehouse
I frequent on snowy days.

Actually, we’ve struck up a friendship
based on lengthy and heated conversations
regarding the nature of God.
Bert is a die-hard atheist,
and although I’m not an atheist
I’m close enough to remain level with him.

Bert says some crazy shit,
“They need the devil and they take it up the
metaphorical ass for it. Poor bastards
think they’re going to the promised land
and instead their own creation eats them
in their beds at night.”
Steam from the frother raising up around his pointy yellow head,
his brow a solid bush V,
beady black eyes relentlessly probing.

I almost felt guilty,
like Bert knew something I didn’t.
Like the devil was fucking me at night,
in my dreams, and Bert saw it in me
with his relentless, impatient stare.
I had never thought this until Bert
planted the seed in my awareness.

“God is a letdown,”
he said a few days later, handing me the
drink of the week.

“Bert Defeated and Worn” appeared in Haggard & Halloo February 25, 2007

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Boob Haiku

Boob, easy to grab,

fits in a relaxed hand, and

makes the hand happy.

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still life #1

three stacks of quarters
half-empty bottle of
Red Stripe
three silver cords
braided sweetgrass
clay ashtray
folded bank receipt
new green toothbrush
digital camera batteries
salmon carpet
framed black and white photos
plastic didgeridoo
walking stick
wooden flute
hands and forearms

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Fresh Wax

Below the gymnasium you’ll find:
Dirt, confused red worms, dried and pressed dandelions,
crushed corn chips in useless bags,
the skeleton of an unknown species of mouse,
an incomplete hole dug by a restless mole,
who emerged only to crash his head against hardwood.

You’ll discover soft caramel made into brick,
rotting love letters from a boy named Miles,
petrified oak roots, nitrous cooking capsules,
sunken squirreled dreams twisted and pressed
forever under the weight of bonds for education.

This place wasn’t here days before, and now it is.
Everything and everyone is confused.

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She scrubs the bathtub with bleach.

In here, the conduit intensifies-
though dull, without inspiration.
I love the sound of water,
any time, any form.

Last night, the vent bubbled
when water butterflied into steam.
We all slept through it,
teeth grinding, saliva moving.

Now the smell of chemicals lights the air.


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badass destroyer

You are the badass destroyer of this coffeeshop universe,
equipped with impenetrable sunglasses, tall fuzzy rich boots,
and a ragged copy of Beneath The Wheel cradled in your hand.

You destroyed every man in here when you lost the denim coat,
the beret, and finally the glasses, all uniform black.

The space around you is solid and unapproachable,
and the men orbit, lost moons looking for a planet to love,
their heads clicking in your direction like sprinklers set to automatic.

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