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.