Omen

it’s half past five

and he just arrived

with petrified roses

that used to thrive

in the sunlight

crinkly red

and ripping at the seems

my lungs choke

on the smoke

that erodes in his throat.

our house is falling,

the bricks lost

their will

to keep the windows

still

his breath

is skin tight

and my eye’s fight

from fluttering with fright.

oh, what a plight

but its half past seven

and now

i’ve arrived

Hello Heaven.

The Working Poem

Nauseated by pain

in my right leg

walking becomes a danger

for the children of the future.

God could you be more dramatic?

Possibly,

depends on what kind of mood

the moon is in.

Try.

Well,

when my time comes around

please lay me down

in the cold dark earth.

But that doesn’t matter does it.

No it doesn’t.

Why?

Graves can’t hold

my body down

I’ll crawl back home.

The Roommate

she wears a ski mask

and likes to ask me

if I had sex today.

i told her to stop basking

in the red liquor

hanging off my deer antlers.

she sings to her flask

at 9 in the morning

about God and Yousafzai.

rice on the floor

tells me

that I’m not alone.

she’s the danger zone

with a broken nasal bone

wishing to pass

her ever-enlarging kidney

stone.

but rice on floor

tells me

she isn’t alone.

The Ant

From the corner of your eye you see a spec move on your pumpernickel bread. You feed and nurture it. You make sure it goes to bed at a decent hour. You take it to parks. But always on a leash.

And it grows

And it grows

AND IT GROWS.

It is bigger than your malamute, so you have to take outside. But the rain makes it hungry. Chunky saliva secrets onto your forehead. Your eyes open and you cringe at the freezing feeling running down the nape of your neck. You glance up at blank black eyes staring down at your nakedness. Your heart clenches and screams

“you idiot”.

And now you run like hell because you forgot to lock the cage.

Ingrown Hairs

Don’t you hate the smudge

on the top left corner

of your closet mirror?

The smudge infects you

insinuating the very

thing you were afraid of.

I can feel the smudge

of his fingertips

brushing over the baby hairs

on my arms.

Don’t you hate the tear

in your favorite ripped jeans?

Sometimes don’t you wish

they were whole?

I wish ingrown hairs didn’t make crying so hard.

I wish red wine made sleeping hard.

I wish my hands didn’t make living so hard

The Rock

He asked me about penguins.

He asked me how they chose a soul mate.

He answered with a rock.

Crystal white, palms sweaty

I took it.

But you

I’m losing you

You let me slip

Between the cracks

Of your living room floor.

Magic

Inside the dust

hanging from the ceiling fan

lives the magic.

Over time the dust

comes out to play.

The dust despises summer.

The dust gets sick

projecting little tiny particles

in a spiral fashion.

The dust wishes

to be a window.

Wishing to see

anything but the blade.

The blade.

Don’t talk about the blade.

The dust multiplies

in fear of the blade.

Spreading far and wide

the dust never realized

the shape of the moon.

If only the dust

hung from the moon.

If only the moon

had the magic of the dust.