•August 31, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The dancers sleep like horses.
An upright, en pointe slumber.

Cyborg music box ballerinas,
Like ice, sculptures gracefully cold.

Company cacophony
Frantic for the abduction.

Our dreams, as sparse as our minds.
Xenophilic, captive in dance.

Wearing blinders, they don’t think
About their lives,

They sleep standing up.


Corporate Mixer.

•August 28, 2012 • Leave a Comment

These things are our last chance.

Twenty-seven isles on the jagged edge
of a Saturday night.
Bossman with no fans
Sipping tonic and idealism makes sure we’re
Thoroughly mixed and fixed
of the trauma of the workweek.
Business bible thumping fat cat spouting Forbes:
“A happy staff is a productive staff,”
just keep your glass half-empty personality all
nice and buttoned up behind the suit jacket
clanging tin cups along the insides of your pinstripes.
The pink and amber spheres
Draining sip by sip into the void between,
Pooling on the fragile bridges.


•August 10, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Fashion me a kiln
Out of bricks, mortar and blood.
When you pound me
Into a crucible
I want you to think
About the circling sycophants
That fly overhead, collecting
Half price markdowns,
Smacking sidewalks with flip flops
With the dust of the Wichita ghettos
Still clinging in arcs over your windshield.
Tell me
Where you put the Body
For Life DVDs
So I can never watch them.

I need a cylindrical vessel of purity
Where God can pour his holy heat.


•July 11, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Melon hearts
Carry dulcet tunes
Sop your face with the juice
Let it run peach and gossamer
Dripping in time to the
Vibrations up your body
From every tribal footstep
And delirious leap into nitrogen arms

Yank it down
Thundering cracked caravans
Running away
Circles and cleft palates
Splitting the fibers of the atoms
Electrons screaming for their mothers
Gnashing at the earth
They claw for her

Taste the phoenix as you rise
Soiled with the ashes of Lake Street

I know you can
Find fear’s filaments
Clogging your every pore
Life’s blood tiger blood
Trying to run
Twist yourself
Into the pretzel of the new generation

Habitually Under Construction.

•July 4, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Around every three minutes a car will drive by, exciting the dust into clouds that settle like a film onto the dump trucks and safety cones.
The inordinate amount of neon orange says there’s a war on Haverford. Apparently, the city of Indianapolis couldn’t go on ignoring the autonomy of the sidewalks. And now, the six o’clock reality depicts the aftermath of the battles between concrete and men at work with deep holes and orange lattice.
I feel like clay baking in this heat, but it’s a sweet heat. Overhead, the leaves of the trees softening its brutality and shading thoughts still ringing with the echoes of a conversation with someone I’m not allowed to love.


•June 30, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The cadences of your combined voices
Tumble down several flights
Of stairs.
These walls are your parentheses,
Scooping you into a
Sentence’s secret room.

Keep the bubbles in your freezer,
And every day
To see if their frosty bodies
Stayed orbular
Through the night your brother-in-law’s best friend’s roommate
Slept next to you in bed.

You fold up your life like a paper fan.
Keep up zigging
As you zag,
Tracing the fault lines
In your cardiac tissue.


•June 22, 2012 • Leave a Comment

We’re tenuous together.
Hanging side by side from her gold chain.
Three, three, two.
Peridot, topaz, amethyst.

Spread thin along the
Stairsteps of a generation.
Amidst every
Birthday undercurrent, every
Snap at a sound,
Every fantastical and inevitable reorganization of
Our lion-hearted loyalties,
We’re together in Belgium.

Held up to the light,
Our gaps provide patterns for the lace
As the rays fall through.
Bright white.