the myth of being alive

I’m holed up in a motel following the night
buttoned down all the way to bloodied dawn
wrestling with  a fresh roll of USA Times.

Despite the police sirens across the street,
I remain asleep. Needle marks on my arm heal.
Coughs from the next room grow quiet.

The sun eats itself, footsteps outside the door
grow and fade, steam of cheap coffee and
popcorn sink into the semen-rotted carpet.

Some days I walk out of my skin. Red hollow
of an afternoon rivals my crimson eyes.
Empty pizza boxes cover my face.

Car clotted streets gasp for air. On dead ends,
I unfold a gang war. My hair turns gray in light,
my voice at the end of a muzzle, tries to sing.


First appeared in The Writing Disorder

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Beach House Poem

It is March and your head is a moon resting on my left breast. Our bed is a boat without oars. Outside the ocean licks the decimals. It’s the same word the waves keep washing. I have a list to go through as I bury your love. I know I cannot wait any more. Desire is only a contract and the manuals don’t explain the science behind it. Maybe it’s time to be less sarcastic and go out more. Or release cool salt. There are uneaten loaves of bread in the fridge and velvet ash between my legs. A financial gap in the sky. There are no roads to reach you, only cracks. The sun has compound eyes and the rain is always willing to fill the longing. I hide my face in a box until the mercury expands. It isn’t winter that makes me dry, it is the night, defaced without a moon cycle.

 

 


First appeared in Bitterzoet Magazine, 2016