Pink and round and new,
newborn baby smooth.
Cross my hands—
this is a prayer called Clonidine.

See the red sun before the gale,
feel the wind that shreds the sail.
Waves crash down, pummel the sand,
over and over, far from land.

This is a prayer called Clonidine.
The last song that I will sing.
Let Clonidine lay me down,
close my eyes and drown.

My eyes roll back so now I see—
no longer pain, just ecstasy.
Endless ocean calm and free,
no longer swimming against the sea.

This is a prayer called Clonidine.
The last song that I will sing.
Let Clonidine lay me down,
close my eyes and drown.

No morning follows these lullabies,
no wrens will sing, no sun will rise.
Just silence now, a velvet shroud—
all tucked in, heads are bowed.

Jolly green shuttles in my hand,
prepped for launch, no place to land.
Cross my hands, calm and still—
This is a prayer called Vistaril.

A lunar landing, breathless, cold.
The stars are near, heartbeat slows.
Darkness deeper than the chill—
A cosmic flight in a little pill.

This is a prayer called Vistaril,
A cosmic flight in a little pill.
Let Vistaril lay me down,
close my eyes and drown.

My eyes roll back so now I see—
no more pain, just ecstasy.
Worlds away, peaceful and free,
no longer fighting against me.

This is my prayer, my last will
a loving embrace in a little pill.
Dear god lay me down,
close my eyes let me drown.

I met you on the edge where light begins,
crowning gold op’ning the eyes of my soul.
In me you touched a vast, unfolding plan
to love brightly once, and once be made whole.

Loves long extinguished, ghosts of the jet sky:
waking stars distant embers of last night
will arc toward shadow and what has begun:
our joy the blaze of summer at its height,

I felt it then — the dimming of the flame,
a steel ice wind cutting flesh off the bone
a final green flash, a trick of the light
you dove through the waves and I was alone.

You were my day. In a bright arc we passed:
through hope, through joy, through grief. My first, my last.

He sleeps, while I writhe.
My legs sea serpents dancing
to an ancestral song,
silken skin, smooth, reptilian —
I’ve ached too long.

He dreams of clocks and duties,
while mystery gyrates —
Calypso’s desire in me.
But his passion’s pulse,
more near to death than sleep,
lies drowned, flattened;
a ghostly galleon on the seabed.

There must be more than this —
my belly, blood, breath agree —
for pulling, twisting, gasping,
I must myself please.

At long last, spit out, washed up
of rolling waves, upon longing’s shore —
a salty, glistening, uncoiled creature,
in the light of the new day’s sun.

Today there were birthdays
today there were deaths.
Today shimmered like gold,
and shattered like glass.

There were some gains,
there was some loss,
somewhere there was sunshine
somewhere there was frost.

Cheers and hurrays
and loud ringing phones,
some made their money,
others stayed home.

Some played great music,
some sat in stillness.
There was birdsong and bombs,
there was health, there was illness.

There was a massive typhoon
there was a sweet gentle rain
some they were grateful
others complained.

Some had full bellies
others were starving
some they were healing
others were dying

Love it bloomed bright,
others fell to the floor
grieving their losses
wailing just one day more.

But while others were busy
and nature was too,
and life was
unfolding ever anew,

I stopped for a moment
to promise you this:
to love you forever,
sealed with a kiss.

Boomers—
children of the Greatest,
born from rations and sacrifice,
from gardens grown in war-torn soil,
from metal drives and blackout nights—
their parents knew how to share a country,
to fight a common enemy,
to win not for one,
but for all.

And yet—
these children of victory
grew up in row houses,
drove a new Chevy every year,
took college on their parents’ dime,
bought homes in their twenties,
summered where the lakes still whispered
and the air still felt free.

They were handed a future
and sold it back to us
at twenty-two percent interest.

Now—
they bring us back to fascism
with a flag in one hand,
and a stock portfolio in the other.

We—
the debt-shackled,
rent-bound,
told to hustle, to pray,
to apply for affordable housing
like it’s a prize
instead of a life sentence.

They say:
We did it,
why can’t you?

But they never paid the price.

Their gods wear gold watches,
ride rockets to nowhere.
They kneel before billionaires
as if mammon were holy.

Remember—
the camel,
the needle’s eye?

You entitled architects of ruin,
your parents would not know you.
Your children do not want you.

You scorched the earth
so you could golf in winter
and warm your empty houses
with fire from the future.

We are ash.
You are the match.

I dream of my grandmother—
her apron stained with sacrifice—
asking me softly,
“Was it my fault?”

No, Grandma.
It was never you.
It was never them.
It was the wealth.
The sickness.
The myth of more.
The greed wrapped in red, white, and blue.

America,
you were never lost.
You were stolen.
By the worst generation
who mistook comfort for victory
and called it freedom.

Annette’s hands are candle wax—
at least as far as shadows are concerned,
twisting in ways that are non-harming.

She said she went to a girls’ reform school
in West Berlin,
where the bookshelves were dusty scars
so old she forgot—ugh, what’s his name?
They were torn from their families.

We had a common interest
in destroying the vapid
with how much we drank
in her New York apartment.

We knew with total certainty
we were witnessing
the decline of Western civilization—
of course Evan still needed to go on walks.
Otherwise, he’s an Ignoble weasel.
Without meaning.

So we write what goes through our heads:
there’s hope for tomorrow
because of Iggy Pop—
the dead future
with makeup
but contained.

“How do you feel about fictionalizing the crisis?” I asked.
“Unhappiness has a beginning.”

Okay then—dominate me.

When something reminds her of the past,
she focuses
on her hands.

JOY IS

creating
and remembering

insignificance.

JOY IS

loving
and
remembering loss.

JOY IS

wanting it
and getting it and
paying for it.

JOY IS

Being in a moment
And for a second forgetting
you can’t go back.

JOY IS

a cupcake
with calories.

JOY IS

working
and giving away
your time.

JOY IS

children—
and worrying
about children.

JOY IS

flowers
and dead flowers.

JOY IS

you’re here!
Until they’re gone.

JOY IS

a moment
stamped
permanently
behind your eyelids.

you look for it.
a two-sided coin.

alone
and together,

young and old,
old and new
and experienced.

beauty
for now.

in a stranglehold—
JOY always escapes
laughing.

you can’t hold onto joy.
JOY escapes.