Friday, September 28, 2018


When you pass through that windshield
all shining dreams, all tumbling crystal,
your life a beautiful gleam
on the gray asphalt of the galaxy,
you, the only one I loved or cared about,
when spears of piercing light shoot through skin
of crumpled metal, through jumbled organs through scrambled heart-dice
of sugar skull safety glass, when
the seat belt goes slick, when the hub cap spins upside down
on your whirling iris, when all that happens,
what song will you sing?
Will it be a song you know by heart,
in those last moments of exploding supernova?
Or something brand new, improvised
in one last burst of inspiration?
Whatever the tune, I will catch the echo in my palm,
hold it tight in the cage of my fist
like a fluttering moth
then hold it up to my ear
so that only I may hear.
When I see you again, I will hum it to you
so that you may recognize me by the melody.

Monday, September 3, 2018

Morning Scaffold Flapping Plastic

I realize the old days weren't better
But there were less helicopters overhead
and the nights were far less sticky
and my chances of trudging home alone
after last call were significantly slimmer
There were more spirited arguments
and less sullen silences, less sidelong glances
and more good-natured ribbing
All my dead friends were still alive back then
Some of them were not even my friends yet
Some of them I hadn't even met yet
But it's true that the valleys still echoed
with hoarse cries and gunshots, with curses
and guttural moans, backfiring cars
and the howling of cats in heat
and the same people who walk in fear now
did so then as well, though maybe
we were better at ignoring them back then
maybe they were better at remaining hidden
as were those who pursued them through the night
and still do