Is it really mediocre,

the work that you do? You

believe there’s nothing new

under the sun. Does it matter?

That line, that stanza, that area,

plagiarized countless times to

get one through. It’s the glue

the great ones steal.


It’s hard to let go. Yes,
I form attachments
To inanimate things; I’m
A bit sentimental. It’s not manly
I know. But I don’t much care.
That’s a lie. Of course I’d rather
Be thought of as virile & tough,
You know the stuff men are
supposed to be. That’s not me.

So I cling to those shoes. The worn
leather and tattered soles,
from where I traversed foreign soil
and where (for awhile) I was free.

Used To

I hate talking about the past,

Things I could do but can’t

Anymore. Though I’m not ready

To be shown the door. Neither are

You. But that doesn’t change

The tone of your discourse,

How you used to do this & once

Did that. As if you pulled a rabbit

Out of a hat, and we should be amazed at that

old sleight Of hand. I once did things too,

But you don’t understand.

The days ahead are far too grand and

The yearbooks are trashed.


I don’t know the reason
The magpie enters the
Garden at this time daily.
I have yet to cast the bread
Leftover from breakfast.

Does he just want to say
Good morning? Or, remind
Me not to forget him?
As if I could, this foreign bird.


Dreams deferred are still

dreams. Hope. You know,

something to help cope.

A preserver on the chest

of one treading water in

life’s darkest deep; a cushion

on a stone cold & unforgiving seat.


A dream denied

is a dream that’s died.

A balloon pressed

against a Gothic ceiling:

out of reach & slowly deflating.


There is something hypnotic
About the way the roof leaks
It’s the rhythm.
It’s the rhythm.
And the pauses
In between,
In between
The punctuated piercings.
It’s destructive.
Eroding our material
World with continuous



Our Father, now I lay me down

and count away the ceiling tiles,

and the dots in the tiles,

and the fan’s RPMs

(anything but sheep).

I know that somewhere above

my hovering prayer there exists

a stratosphere, an exosphere,

and beyond the spheres