The silver glaciers glisten, the snowdrifts sparkle, gleam
The massive tracks of mammoths bombard the icy plain
Hunters with their Clacton spears flow over the ice
Life demands to barter and it asks the steepest price

The bloody-coughing children lay silent in their sleep
All know, on the glacier it is death to stop and weep
The ice may seem as certain as the distant dream of death,
but glaciers become vapor we inhale with every breath

Striving For Nobody

The presses print no papers

My name dries every tongue.

Don’t think of me, please don’t think of me

Just let me be gone.

Look through the hallways, unlock every door,

Knock down the cellar walls

Dig the hearts up from the floor.

Let me grow nameless under fallen logs,

I can’t be known any more.

If You Are Yet Cruel

If you still have the desire to consume all you see,
then say “I love you” as your parting words to me.
If you still have yet to learn that others have their own hearts,
their minds spinning doubletime to justify your arts,
do not hesitate to call me, or to send a winding text,
I am eagerly awaiting each and every coming wreck.
The things that do not kill me only make me more alive,
Each burr I pull from my flesh is a seed that,

We, The Unlikely Thing

All the top minds in Vegas say the odds are too long,
The investors are claiming the economy’s wrong,
Our hearts may prosper, or they might bloat with pus
but at least we can know there’s pain in it for us
Regardless of outcome, we’ll hurt and we’ll feel,
we’ll pick at the scabs so they never quite heal.
The finish-line hushes as we limp our last minutes
the horse-betters hesitate to throw down their tickets.


We showered together, you packed up and said goodbye,
as the last light in Ohio beamed down from on high.
I won’t see you again,
but remember bloodstains on your teeth.
I won’t see you again,
but absence hurts the least.

The meal is done and over
but nobody turned off the stove,
when the whole house burns to ashes I’ll
have nowhere left to go.
The people who can hurt you most
are the ones you think you know,
and the wounds that dig the deepest
give the greatest scars to show.

And I’ll still be dwelling on this
Ten thousand years down the line,
I will search out traces of love for you
like seashells in crushed lime.

False Correlation

It must seem important: this omen, this portent,
this death-dried dove in the fender,
that pack of black cats with their famished frames.

It must seem important, these curses, this torment,
the doom-spelling stars and grammatical comets.
It must be important, but all I can say:
What’s a low-pressure-front forecast
to a beautiful day?


You didn’t know what to wear, and worse,
you weren’t told what to think. The other kids
called you lame, and weird, but a fur-lined sweatshirt
and athletic shorts with goth-boots suited you, somehow.
A boy bloodied you up and called you
faggot, and I didn’t hurt you but didn’t
stop him. I think about that sometimes, and I
wonder where you are now. I wonder what would
be different if I wasn’t a coward? Would our lives
be better, or would we both be beaten, thrown
to the ground, two more weird and lame
bodies gone to dust on an ancient, endless road