Parents fuck us up,

religion too. They

claim they are the ties

& the glue, that holds

the unit close to get one

through. As if we couldn’t

do very well without them.

Of course, it’s untrue.




It’s only in the margins
Where most get to tell
Their stories. It’s the only
Space left, after notables
Have filled the page. Often
Overlooked or neglected,
Removed from the center,
They become the outliers,
The supporting players, living
Lives scribbled in the borders.


My old tv rests on my old
Table, that once belonged
To my old dead family.
It still works.
The bulbous back,
Convex screen, &
Why, really, should I discard
something because it’s old &
out of date, when it’s perfectly
Useful? I’ll never know
A good answer to that debate.


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.