Poetry

The starving artist has got a hunger to fill. Stepping forward an assembly line of writing prompts dreading the sentence. Is it venial or mortal? This sin I’ve placed myself […]

Armchair Paparazzo You have come to statethis obsessionthought oftenfought uponfawn til dawnover this red carpetrolled out for everyone. And I roll my eyes. Bowing downto the Hollywood elitekissing feetshoed by

I don’t mean to be a bitch,but…I’m going to make you give it to me. I hope you don’t expect to get it back.

I’d like to write,but I’m a-fearedall will sound the same. Hiding there,amongstthe off-brandbottle of ketchup,lemon juice,out-dated box of baking soda,singled-out eggs and garlic bulbs,and duck sauce, soy packetsI save, but

Your testamentis written here,not for the causethat I want to please youbut because I’m pleasedto want you. Indelible inktattooed into myveins, floodedwith the permanence ofyour love not to bring pain,only

I can remember where we were, but only because the picture tells me so. Not the exact moment— but memory serves me, over easy cold breakfast conversations. Playing games on

The extent of our loveis a scrapbookdedicatedto that which gathering dust uponthe shelfsafely secreted awaywhere the grandkidscan’t find itbecause you’re ashamedto show them. Washed up, washed outsepia tonesand blackand white

Tumble weeds whisperacross the barren landscapes of my heart.The ghost town stands empty,save that last lone leperholding on with dear lifepulling up that poisonous patch of devil grass.Wind whipping throughthe