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the weeks are slipping away like high school romance
we’re left with spare change and hangovers
and time and again someone to celebrate the day with
we’re depositing our hearts into swiss bank accounts
when we should be selling them on street carts
we should be listening to one another
but the air is polluted with wifi networks, with
bluetooth signals, with awkward silences,
with televangelistic exorcism

the air is polluted with the sound of all the wrong things
and the coffee shops are full of wolves in hipster’s clothing
the tables are all reserved
and all the empty houses are not for sale
three hundred million bulls in one giant china shop
three hundred million cats in a burlap sack
three hundred million people
trying to pull the actors off the television screen
and put them in their pockets and purses

a nation full of jabbering jaws
a nation…

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Sitting on the edge of the platform, where you’ve spent your days of fun, wondering how easily you’ve jumped into life and out of childhood, and why you ever left it behind.

Emotional Weather Report (Results from a Writing Exercise)

Outside, the invisible wind twists and bends itself into every frame and every fold of the glass of her bedroom windows, making a monstrous sound that startles her and shakes her to her very core. The same wind lifts tree leaves off the ground and they do a little dance before her eyes. They say it’s easy to get lost in the wind- you can whisper anything and it will carry your thoughts, like dust, to another person’s window. Breathing in your sentiments, anyone may feel the elemental plea to belong.  However, she shut her windows closed and her dust thoughts remained on the floor, safe and sound from the forthcoming rain.

Untitled Poem

Hello there, honey,
Here’s the money you asked from me,
And I’m truly, truly sorry,
If ten dollars is all that I can bring to you,

And if you need more golden liquid,
To fill your cup,
I’d take all of my grandma’s jewels,
And sell them to the shop.
You know I’d do anything for you
And me

Like to leave someday,
And take you out of this town.
Then maybe all our debts won’t come
Hanging around.
Maybe my momma will be proud of me,
And our names be spoken of, highly,
By people who tried to bring us down.

Till then, pass me the kitchen knife
And our rusty pot,
I’ll cook you dinner,
You better eat a lot!

Wishin we could leave this town,
I am wishin we could leave this town,
Without a sound, this town,
We are in.


I Only Care About Your Soul (Vignette 1)

I don’t care about the fact 
That you hold your burger with your bare hands, 
Or if you’ve got chocolate stuck in your elastic bands,
I want to know if you’re hungry enough to 
Chew on the nit and grit and  flavors of the world, 
Not thinking of life as just an insipid appetizer,
Leading us, one glorious meal to the next.


To be continued. Dun dun dun.