You can’t grow roses in a snowglobe,
you can’t grow anything in that
cheap confetti,
and you can’t pretend you’re outside in the sun,
and you can’t escape your regrets,
when you’re locked in a room for two months or more and
there are sounds in the walls and screams at the door and
the world is flooding and burning and worse and
you’re just sitting at home,
plinking seeds in fake earth.


you wish for lemons but
life won’t give you lemons,
life won’t even give you apples.
Life gives you rocks,
boulders too large to move, life gives you
stones and
asks you to chew them,
life gives you shit and
claims it’s a smoothie.
Life can’t be trusted,
not with lemons,
not with rocks,
not with anything important;
reject whatever life offers
in all its cruelty,
and build something kind
on your own time.

less than friend

I came for glory,
bloodied, storied,
wishing on what evils lurked in the sky;
I came for you.
I know.
It’s true,
I hoped you wouldn’t feel this reason why.

You held my head to the ground
like the most disloyal hound
and I am less than that,
less than friend, less than dust,
so small and savage in my hope that you
will turn, favorable, with eyes renewed
upon me, seeing at last
everything I want you to.


The jive, the lie, the secret hollows,
the craft, the guilt, the crowd that follows;
charisma, unchained, soon flies
with confidence, virtue, and loftier lies.

Ask not what lurks beneath the surface
of placid lakes without disturbance,
for dwells within the murky reaches
a slimy snaking swell of leeches

Growing New Bones

The boy with bright blue feathers
sprouting in his hair, could sing and
change the weather, could laugh and
fall in love.

The boy with bright blue feathers
could not learn multiplication tables,
and the teacher called the principal, who met with
the councilor, who spoke in hushed tones
with the parents:

The boy with bright blue feathers
blossoming from his back
has no future in insurance, or
accountancy, and no real talent
for numbers.

The boy with bright blue feathers
would grow new bones one day,
gnarled and feathered,
strong wings, strong enough
to carry him away from here.

All Dark on the Highway

Headlights dead, fluids bleeding
a neon trail for the hounds.
Brakes, rusted beyond repair, are not an option,
so rocket beyond control.
Scrape past the slow, barely ahead, chase the
distant lights, the rarer vehicles,
born with functioning radios,
lucky enough to be maintained,
wishing you were born that way, wishing
you were lucky enough.

Be careful as you plummet,
for others are there, all dark
on the highway, all trying
to make up the missing mile, all hoping
to catch up, all willing
to pass by the wrecks.

1/5/19 – Death wears orange

In Wayne county, in the winter,
When the ice swam slick,
A hunter, aiming, from his blind
Wished the brush were a touch less thick,
As he smoothly sailed the cross-hair,
At an angle up the hill, catching on a woolly shoulder
Already dreaming of recounting,
“Bam. Got ’em right in the brisket-
Went down like a boulder,”
The smoke poured out, and then the sound-
And when he searched ,
No blood was found.
So, shrugging, he reloaded,
and went back to his blind.

A mile and a half away,
past the Holmes county line,
a church-born woman in her buggy,
crawling across a gravel road,
wondering something, but never expecting
a tiny thumb of lead and chance,
meant for a prize buck,
to poke through the canvas top
and pluck her from her thoughts.