To the Slaughterhouse
No one is home, or maybe they arethey’re just not answeringwe cannot connect fingersacross the electronic divide data mines data
Category: poetry
Thick Books of Poetry
Thick books of poetry are dauntingseemingly taunting from behind their coversraising phrases that could’ve been yoursbut pushed by others we
Of Raw Quality
I am an onion beneath the surfacea bulb petrified by the flashI think myself into faceinto attentioninto mass reflectioninto oblivious
Average Means
Like every aging manI think about the things I would do or say different if given a do overthe others
Wound to the Clock
Blinded by the clockcounting dollarsindexing worth to secondschained to interestworth in existenceI am an hour Everything I say or doleaves
Folk Song
Some justice is whore justicebecause more justice is wrongI am the neophyte plebeianposing as exemplar, dredging syllables into songI take
The Lights
The lights don’t reveal things as clear as they used toand with a dim energy my chest plods along No
Consumed
Consumed and unconsumedworshiped and played fornot the woman or the man,that is a different story This is about any personnot
I Am a Ghost that Causes So Much Ridicule
I am not mentally illI just see stuff that no one else seessays almost everyone occasionally You are mentally ill,
Dionysus and Apollo
Dionysus as woman, Apollo as Man.Apollo as woman, Dionysus as man.Woman and man both Dionysus.Woman and man both Apollo.No exit.
