It

With it I feel

Something

Without it

I feel Something

It is I as I is it

And can be many things

A pebble in the shoe

A headache after dark

A dismal brackish thing

That I wonder if it feels

Something without me?

It’s probably for the best

To leave it alone.

daydream eyes

For every bad breath morning

For every kitty litter night

The only thing I’d change

was the fabric softener,

which still lingers

like her kiss

in my daydream eyes

Where the message is pure

as fresh cut grass

The smell of sage and

Himalayan Shilajit

Rib Cage

Don’t think you’re working hard enough?

Then wait till you can see your rib cage

Wait till instead of loathing

You begin to welcome sleep

Wait till your veal turns to porterhouse

Till your pennies turn to dollars

Wait till going home is lonelier than not

Till you don’t feel whole until you’re broken

Broken from the inside out so that no one can see

No one but

You

In the morning

In the mirror

In the gray light

Admiring your rib cage

Knowing you’ve worked hard for this

Hard enough to die—

But not quite

My Dear, Rumination

After a while

you’ll come to realize

that it’s these

needle thin problems, these

paper thin thoughts, these

failed salutations, and

strangers fiction bought

that keep us alive

and somewhere we ought

not dare go alone,

what a gift to feel lost—

my dear, rumination

what a privilege I’ve been granted

these feelings I have fought.

This Boys Life

If it sounds like suicide

It’s probably suicide

If it doesn’t, then

It’s probably suicide

You see. I’ve got to toy with it

I’ve got to play with it

Let it tangle me in knots until

I’ve grown tired of its tricks, until

I’ve acquired a finer taste

For those brief honest moments

Just before sleep, letting him go

Pillow breathing in peace, with it all

And how it had to end, in order for

This boys life—to begin…

Driving In LA

in LA

Are the women who drive

with dogs on their lap

Who at stop signs make

no attempt to stop

Cutting me off are these women

with Versace glasses to block the sun

Haunting amounts of eyeliner

blush, and lipstick the color of

raw meat

These are the same women who at home

have too many pairs of shoes

and never enough

And the fluffy little designer poodle

primped and propped high

on the lap of their would be master,

if these women weren’t blowing their

alimony checks on Princess’s groomer

They’re either on their phone at red lights

Cutting me off in the wrong lane

Or cutting me off at four way stops

Princess with her beady little eyes

And her dirty little asshole

Sitting like a queen

upon

the biggest assholes in LA

And she’s smiling at me

Cause even she knows

the irony