Friday, April 20, 2012


Wake up little stone.
I know you think I don’t care.
I know you’d rather I
turn into a chair
than endure
one-way conversations.

If only you knew
how much I adore
running my fingertips
across your roughened surfaces,
all the ages of the world
contained by your stoic-ness.

If only you could feel
how I feel,
open your stony eyes
and admire the beauty
naked before you,
the human sadness

that can mill mountains
into clay,
jackhammer lovers
into sand.
It’s all I can do to step on you
to get to another just like you.

Tiny little insignificant
pebble of a stone.
We are more alike
than both of us
care to think.
I will show you if you grind this ink.

The King Is Dead

Under the light of a darkened moon
and led by wordless prayers as though to battle,
I rode a nameless horse, a broken sword,
and dreamed a dream of royal death.

I saw him fall on marble tiles, on his knees
pleading to be spared. I saw his body dragged
into the streets like a splinter drawn out from
a fingernail, finally facing his people.

There was no moratorium, no trial by jury.
Their hands tore him apart like paper. 
Some cut his body parts off to feed their dogs.
But none of the dogs dared to eat him.

The king is dead!
The king is dead!

Thursday, April 19, 2012

A Glass Of Water

Silence, as tall as a glass of water, appears
in the opening of your mouth.

It's chilled,
stilled, unassuming, unfulfilled.

No words written in abandon
by your cooled fingers.

I want to touch you, but you might smile,
and recoil in denial of everything.

Silence, as tall as a see-through life-sized question mark.
Silence, won't you quench me now?


I don’t want my friends to think I’m oversensitive.
It’s bad enough that I lose it when no one
calls for several days.
I know everyone’s busy.
Everybody’s got lives of their own.
To be honest, I don’t really know them anyway.
I should meet new people.
Lead a quieter life.  
Eat less.
Exercise more.
Have more acquaintances.
Take comfort in passing strangers.
Too many friends can kill you.  
Too many friends can make you think you’re loved
when you’re actually surrounded by bitches,
telling you their secrets, wanting you
to know what little beasts they really are.
But look at how surprised I look
when they finally reveal themselves;
I’m just as fake as they are.
I’ll sit in for photos and look like I’m there.
I’ll smile and laugh at jokes with the sort of conviction
that comes from nowhere.  
All the bitches I should’ve killed—
I’ll let them live.
Care less.
Ignore more.
Pass them by in darkness.
They’re nothing but whores. 

Monday, April 16, 2012


I wish I had more time
To notice the way you lie
Sleeping inside my head
In the corner of my eye

What do you dream about
I'd like to think it's me
But I can't be too sure
Specially when you speak

Mumbling and gibbering
About why you can't stay
And yet remain asleep
Still and unfrayed

Why do you sleep so much
Making a bed of my brain
If only I had more time
I'd lie there with you again