I’m not sure if Mercury was in retrograde or if Sega was in genesis, but you slipped an unwelcome touch into my orbit & I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.

The Proclaimers hummed in the background as the aunties shrugged…

“Some people are born with tragedy in their blood.”

The nooseman approaches & with surrender on my lips, I say: “Sew me into the creases of your hemlocked hood.”

Tiny holes cut for beady gapes.
Do. Not. Look. Away.

The moon is wailing in chorus with mothers & brothers in hidden crypts over mountains of headless children born into snake pits.

800-588-2300…EMPIRE…today is the day we set you on fire. More cobra with desire until you suffocate on centuries of soul weight.

The ground opens up & the universe obliterates.

A spare bedroom tea set gathers dust in shadow of craven lust for more & more & more. The **** of a boy & the **** of the world. Holy rage steeped to liberation. Comrades healing together with blades unfurled.

No longer will we cower & beg for a piece of what’s already ours. The serpent’s spine rotting on concrete.

All hail the death of tyranny.

A bird sat on a ledge, calling for air,
“Please, give me merely a share!”

A breeze came and lifted the bird off the ground
The breeze ruffling the bird’s feathers was the only sound

Every day, the bird decided to sit and wait
The bird was drawn to the wind, perhaps even fate

The wind always listened when the world did not
The bird had found something it had always sought

Then one day, dark clouds came and rain poured down
And the wind lunged forwards, without even a frown

At last, the bird saw the wind’s true power
The bird wanted to hide, but the wind didn’t let it cower

The wind ruffled the bird’s feathers as it had done in the past
The bird took off, flying ever so fast

Then the storm passed; the rain was gone
The bird looked at the sun from the ledge it was on

“Wind, let me once again soar!”
But the wind replied no more.

that comes along at 3 a.m.
to wake me from the dreams
I’ve been living in.

An unwanted visitor
that doesn’t leave,
as I try to get rid of it,
push it away
with desperate hands
waving in the dark tranquility
of early morning.

A visitor here to teach me
all the ways we resist the world,
all the ways we wish we were elsewhere,
trying to control what’s not ours to control.

Desperately waving our hands around
as if that would do it.

As if,
as if what we want matters to the world.

One mosquito can ruin everything;
you can turn on all the flashlights,
stay up until 5,
but you won’t see it unless you do,
standing there on the edge of the wardrobe.

With a certain resolve:
“smack.”
Gone,
away with your worries,
and now you can return deep
into your dreams.

If only we could smash away the problems,
all that buzzes around in our heads,
all questions unanswered,
all that torments us deep into the night.

“Smack.”
Gone.

Submissive people

often hide a hidden force --


An underground fire.

The pamphlets are blank,

that is their message, surely --


it's commonly known.

Reluctance wants to

be alone, unobserved not --


doing what you want.

No one's listening,

so there is no censorship --


of the protesters.