Featured Poetry
Wrapped in Towels and Awaiting the Incinerator
Before we drive them to their deaths
she’s craze-eyed with tumors
beneath the trampoline.
He has had his last seizure and stands
blinking at the wind which
smooths back his fur.
It’s cold enough my hands sting from
raking up their shit. Appropriate
weather for a double homicide.
Heavy as the regret of not entering the bedroom
and saying goodbye to my freshly dead
mother is the regret that I
did not hold that old dog to gentle her into
death for fear of her shedding
all over my chest.
I recall the reflection of a distressed
dog and her contemptible man
in the vet’s cold steel table.
If I could scoop away selfishness
as simply as dog shit, from
frigid springtime grass—
​
​
In My Chamber
The darkness moves me
to contemplate another
day of hope greyed-out,
wherein I cannot eat
the bullet because the others
beat me to it. Visions of
their brains exposed
the pain they spattered
on those they abandoned
as greater than that
which hugs its shoulders
cowering cornered,
curtained in yellowed
gauze tatters inside
my desperate mind.
​
​
March 27th
Why wonder
if your dead
mother
would now
approve of you?
Instead, leave Her
Buried-Fifty-Feet-Below,
hidden from the howling
of the winter winds.
Because
There is either something
or there is nothing
after this earth
and either belief isn’t
bringing Her back
to lay down
final judgement.
​
​
Wake up.
What nightmare oddments slink
off from your window when
dawn light rims the sky red?
Malformed grotesques and the
carnival long since left town.
Skeletons grown twisted and bent
with no closet in which to rest.
Creatures clabber and claw tree bark
while red-rimmed eyes shoot malice
through your double paned glass.