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I have been writing poetry since I was young and have been published in a number of magazines, journals, and compilations.
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suspect that sanity
shines like patches of color.
through the confusion
of this sylvan display.
leaves cast a patch shadow
and sketched thoughts
without coherence need pollen
the rejuvenation like sticky buds.
filtered sunlight on the cool earth
of a dark muddy introversion
like confusion plays, hides
from the sober patterns.
pools in pastel scraps of
greens, browns, yellows. lucid
patches of calm. the tranquil
closed in of knowing. down.
i have ragged rips that show the blue sky.
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If I had smoked your toenails and drank your sweat
my morning might have been tolerable.
Even my brother-man was to nervous to come near me.
And I hear brother-man say “I hate it when he’s like this.”
After I leave the room.
It’s days like this when the soft wet part of my left arm
starts to itch. And it’s not the weather.
Not one of the seventeen muscles it takes to smile
cooperate, and steroids don’t seem like the solution.
Dog’s having a nervous breakdown.
Mack asks me “You been sleeping, Dog?
Because you look like hell in a skillet.”
I light a Camel and squeeze the cold grime
out of yesterday’s coffee filter.
Pass the chipotle, I’m about done.
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casket lover)
rattle another death lizard,
memories shake in my hands.
falls out insecurities of stars
arching to morning.
crack bones (moody lamplight.
dead light crawls in and
eats between midnight...
and morning alive
in a full (naked
paper monster,
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blood flows like cream
out into sinuses as
the oral surgeon
carves. my teeth fall.
i spit sterile swabs from
a bloody mouth.
pulling drinks from blue
bottles, the merry drinker
is submersed in spurting red.
beady eyes and white teeth.
our conversation is short
i tell him that i dream of
loosing my teeth while i stand
in the middle of a busy highway.
he asks me to drink sangria.
i wash my mouth with warm
salt water and wine.
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When we left, it rained on our silence.
Her fingers were raw from the strings.
We drove her blue station wagon,
a car too heavy –
too indigent –
to stop for the night.
Even when a detour sent us off the highway
and onto a dark winding mountain road.
A vicious storm, skidding in on slick leaves.
Trucks with tires like wrecking balls
pelt us with crashing sheets of water.
Little hydroplanes form under our dissociation.
In the shade of dense mountains,
we hear the howling wind ranting us eulogies.
A white guest wing stretches out caressing the road.
Stopping, the yard seems a symphony of gentle slopes.
We steer slowly into a careful arpeggio turn.
She asks at the house to spend the night.
I sleep on the front seat, while horses chatter distantly.
She wakes me before we have to explain too much.
Pre-dawn reveals white stables,
a bright green lawn,
and the taut strands of a spider web.
The deserted road stretches on silently.
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