The Author

His diction impeccable,
rhyme scheme incredulous,
meter rhetorical,
main themes self-righteous.

He'll abstract hard facts
while adding mass tracts
to an elderly tome
that's already been written;
he's made it a poem:
the hand that fed: bitten.


He watches t.v. or
he mopes.
He is a janitor.
He goes outside to smoke.
He snores.
His life has asymptotes.


The Elder Statesmen of Teen Angst

I went to see the Elder Statesmen the other day.
It was their Final Farewell tour
and seeing them reminded me of when I lost my virginity.

They came onstage and announced
their saline drips had been replaced
with bottles of Finlandia.
I knew it was still saline solution,
but the idea of it was exciting.

Tommy started banging on his drums:
the introduction to either
"No Homework Forever" or
"My Girlfriend is a Slut(And I Like It)".
The crowd waited eagerly for Jimmy James
to start singing.

He approached the microphone
as a lion approaches a dead gazelle,
What? he said.

Yeah! replied the crowd.

What? he said.

Yeah! replied the crowd.

What? he said.

and his voice echoed into the night.


Returning To My Native Streams

I spent my youth not far from here
among the rocks and weeds,

then journeyed slowly down the stream
while growing fat upon my dreams.

The water was so vast I feared
I would be lost at sea;

It's salty brine I drank like beer,
then vomited till three.

The apex of my youth is here:
it's time to go upstream.

Biology has seized our hands
and led us to this place.

It's hallowed halls we could contrive
to hold all of our tiny lives;

and yet I have a greater reason why:
I'm here to fuck and die.



When the cold concedes
And the crocus foists
Its brilliance on a
Broth of Grey,
She cranes her hands
Toward the sun
And plucks tons
Of perfunctory phrases.
Gingerly arranging them
around the room.

I sing into the wall
And it reverberates
Over my cheekbones.

It spackles the gaps,
Spills between brittle
Leaves: a chorus
of cracking frost
And the heaving
smell of birth.

Her lips bloom
And we both soak
In its assurance.


Our City Has a Star

To fuel her requires the whole town's attention.

She radiates enough light to sustain life.

When she expires she will implode,
killing us all.

She draws more people into her orbit every week.

As far as celestial beings go,
she is on the small side.

Yet she refuses to be eclipsed.

She is distant,
but maintains an air of closeness.

When she weeps, the moon moves closer,

emanates soft light,

creates tsunamis in opposite parts of the world.

My Ambition

is a debt between
myself and I
in which either
side only wants
a minimum