the chinos never look as good
on me as on the mannequin
perhaps because it has no ass
but mine has grown quite large again
2022-11-24
black hole
physics at
the dmv
2022-11-23
this morning
back to work
off to grind
the burrs
off student
graphs &
lines poxxed
& pocked
with ideas
half-assed
& three-
quarters full
another year
older &
none the
wiser &
at fifty-two
I still think
this is what
I did with
my life,
so many
days lost
chipping away
at sentences
impossible to
diagram & my
breath catching
at so many
traumas laid
bare on
blank pages
2022-11-22
call for mr. hemingway
It was dark. I liked the dark. No one could bother me. I sat there. I was cold, alone, in the dark. It wasn’t easy to sit there, but sit there I did. I poured myself a drink. Gin. I always drink gin. No ice. The gin slid down my throat like a gun. If it had been a Colt, I would have pulled the trigger. Instead, I had another drink. The phone rang. I let it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. I shoved the goddamn phone of my desk. Who the hell wants to talk on the phone when he’s drinking a gin, alone, in the dark? No, what you want then is another drink, then another, then another. Or maybe you want some good looking gal to walk through the door, pour herself a drink. Maybe you make a little small talk. Maybe she tosses her drink in your face. Maybe you like it. Maybe you think too much. So I drank my gin and sat in the dark, the phone a silent tangle on the floor. Outside a car honked. Goddamn cars.
2022-11-21
It was the woods but it was not the woods. Night sounds swaddled dying embers then the clearing was claws and maw and roaring. In the wood-dark with dagger in fist I leapt towards the screaming. Behind me Hafghar swore at his axe and stumbled into a muffled embrace. In moments it was over: Freysa dead, Narthgale’s hand mangled, my shoulder shred, an owlbear limp against a sapling. Hafghar’s laugh split the air before he turned and vomited. I waited for the shivers. They never came.
2022-11-20
screw you, bill
this is
just to say
fuck you
for eating
the plums
I was
saving for
breakfast &
now I
have to
eat oat-
meal again
goddammit
2022-11-19
call for submissions
new literary journal seeks
poems about your mother
but not those kind & pays
in guilt & copies; masochists
& second daughters encouraged
to apply; please see our website
for examples of work we’d
rather not see again, especially
from you Arnie Papf because
that obsession with cherry
pie filling is quite disturbing
& as we have told you at
least twenty times your
work is not suited for
our publication but then
not much is so everyone
else take your shot
