Category: Poetry

Moving restively through a corridor of dust. A beep of a car alarm being armed reminds me of a fire consuming a town.

I am a chameleon among skinks; Species and species not mixing. So, they talk, And I blend in.

...what I mean is does it have to hurt to mean something?

After that, of course, he had no choice but to ridicule the mourners, mock their tears, as if the moisture on his own face were in any way human.

The church walls shining in arches, growing vines, peacocks, and vases.

Flip a card of power at Ravenna— that a battery comes alive—flip a card

I keep walking, hands buried deep, collar turned up, and then I see them— a man and woman huddled at the bus stop, stealing kisses between clouds of breath, laughing like the world isn’t breaking a little more every day...