Two poems

Both of these were published in a literary journal based in ft. wayne, in. I read them both aloud at the journal's reading. It was quite the experience.

Twenty-Seven (A Collapse of the Knees)

Simply because we are both sad
like autumn trees,
we want no room to breath
just space to bleed.

Slit the wrists –
one hit, two hits.

Simply because we are both lying on the tile
like collapsed knees,
we want no air to chill us
just medication to fill us.

Shoot the shit –
three hits, four hits.

And with our end-all get-a-fix,
we’ll have dreams in our slumber,
put out the welcome mat for death;
step it up, take a number.

Simply because we are both sad
like summer breeze,we want no t-shirts untucked,
just some reason to fuck.

Rip the stitch –
five hits, six hits.

Simply because we are both sad
like skeleton keys,
we want no standard protocol
just whiskey, some vodka, lots of alcohol.

Taking shit –
this hit, last hit.

And with our end-all get-a-fix,
we’ll have fine dreams in our slumber,
put out the flowers, welcome mat for death;
step it up, they’ve called our number.


This Is Your Baby Speaking

Caught his pants on the door knob,
lost her dress due to heart throb.And the soldiers march again,
filed up, hundreds of them.

Remarkable.
That was the kiss up.
Phenomenal.
I do believe we just saw the hit up.

Caught his hand on the bed frame,
lost her innocence because of her shame.
And the parents march again,
secret police, too many of them.
Unmistakable.
That was the fuck up.
Holy shit!
I think we witnessed the touch up.

Caught his kid on the dollar,
he wouldn’t have tried to stop her.
And the CPS march again,
legal thieves, a pair of them.