100 Proof

I thought I heard you coming through the car radio, en route to nowhere that really much matters. Train Kept a Rollin’ and I didn’t change the station, even though I’d rather step in soft dog shit with bare feet than listen to Aerosmith. You’d always loved Aerosmith. Now I hate Aerosmith cos you don’t

I Breathe Still

For a minute or more, I was dead as you, as you were technically dead before the end was absolute— before your brain conceded. For a minute or more, my world was edged in blossoming dark, engrossing, on the cusp of consent. Blackbirds congregated, chattered ‘round my head, and they called dibs on my vital

For the Women I’ve Lost

Nothing scares me. I’ve built my house around those who haunt me. Brick and mortar rises tall—a keep. The older I grow, so does my fortress. Soon, I’ll be left alone to revel in my ghosts in peace. Soon, I’ll be left alone, where I belong. Soon, I’ll be happy in spite of mourning. Soon,

Last Judgement

Come on down from there, if only for a quick minute. The last time I saw you is unsatisfactory in hindsight. Retrospection is a bitch dressed in my skin— I’ve become leprous. I may not pray to God, but I do talk to Jesus. My words fall on dead ears. Christ will not come to

Marbles

Memories are marbles banging against one another, and bouncing off the walls of my skull. I’m scrambled brains with a side of ketchup.   You were the same as I am. Or I am the same as you were— you’re dead.   Dead. What an ugly word. Dead. Dead. DEAD. My mother is dead.  

Anyway, Always

Thinking about it now, I’m not the least bit sorry for the hateful shit I’d said to you eleventy years ago, when I was a kid and you fucking knew better. I rescind my apologies. Not that my sorries ever meant a good goddamn to you, anyway— they were ever only as true as your

Monochrome Lungs

Today my eyes are monochrome lenses through which I deride; derailed by your present absence, I do despise this goddamned neighborhood. The people all breathe too loudly, showing off their functioning lungs.   (image: Pinterest)

For Only Me

  Every day it does reign, a perpetual decrescendo— melancholic melody made for only me.   Deluge of disquiet comprises choral pessimists repeating in my head. Depressionist percussionist beats heart that’s damn near dead. Dirges designed for only me.   But! Though it does reign—my melancholic melody—I seek the one to share an umbrella.  

Dead Mothers Don’t Dine

I dreamt I was miniature, traveling through a labyrinthine trailer park diseased with taupe colored muck, and flip-flopping mudskippers; pectoral fins glimmered in waves, despite the sunless, flat grey ceiling of a sky. My skin screamed at the loathsome goby touch, and my mouse heart beat savagely against its cage. Panic drove my legs, and

At the Dairy Case

Fuck grocery store etiquette. Tears for Fears tells me to shout, so I let it all out in front of the dairy case while inspecting my perfection— mourning after reflection—in the fingerprinted glass. My cheeks are hollow but my gut is bloated from too much diet soda (I’m watching my figure) and vodka.   In