The Stark Comma

Grifted from the madness of it all.

a boom

there is genius somewhere
down there like a boom in
williston. you dredge and
construct a derrick to bob
for something meaningful but
it’s dry. get a couple neat
highball glasses or a bender in a
gin pole but
same result. scour through
all the plots you have put a
pillow in only to shuffle on, lease
anew but dry. but one day, when it feels
like the sun is gonna burn ya out and
all those memories and emotions and
lowests and pratfalls do a patchwork
haze; a

boom.

waikiki

in between turquoise motel doors and
a parking garage full of screaming
girls; okra, potatoes, zucchini and
chops sizzle in foil.

eat like caveman at midnight and
talk like sailors under a waxing
cratered.

smoke too many and tequila, this
is a goddamn perfect night.

waikiki and the purity of a
stranger dinner.

nuremburg

piss on the side of
new

construction. there are
bullfrogs clamoring for
attention: porch lights
set the driveways to

noir, keeping the thieves
away but perhaps your
husband snoring other
side of queen is thief. fuckin

brain is noir chowder.

put cock back in cotton and
smile for an airport couple
roar

miles away. the pond is full
of horny bullfrogs.

a weak crescent just
above my shoulder makes
me nervous and tells me to
sleep.

my first untitled outfit

stub my cig out a few puffs in and
relight. stub, hand reaches then flame.

fucking human nature. this will kill
one day but hey. forgot my plastic
bottle of milwaukee:

gravity is the lesser evil. pull. pull
you sonofabitch.

in that syncopated style

somethin bout drums in
a dirty city. drunkards all
dance just like they did in
a goodman sense and it
got god in it. perhaps not
the standard interp of god but
something more.
and the girlies
move and the street moves and
the night, the night moves just
as a character in your
favorite flick. natural and

unhinged.

I want to love again

I don’t know how I got here
   I see blurs for human flesh and
emotion. my parents now just
    strangers who can recall
my childhood phobias and how
   I was quiet and what pajamas
I wore. my sister, just a DNA
   stamp that pressed two, that
gave same nose but do I truly know
     her outside of plasma bound?

this fucking saddens me and I know
it’s just me. I want to see them as
more than just a footnote to my
adult being but something changed.

I don’t know
I don’t know
Fuck, I don’t know the
how or the why but
I want to love again.

a wanderer and ripley

an older Canadian wanderer came
to my coffee shop and ordered
an americano. he looked tired and
beaten down but reasonably
content.                                      he tied

his dog up to a concrete post just out
front. it was raining and cold, even
for this southern beach
town.                                          his dog,

a golden retriever by the name of
ripley, kept on barking loudly for
him. told me that they go everywhere
together; “she’s not used to being alone.”
he asked how much for the coffee, I
said nothing.                            he thanked

me and went back out to ripley. I
followed with a cup of water for
her. she licked my hands first, then
lapped up the water. he told me  that I
reminded him of his son who was no longer
around.                                      I thanked

him and we said our goodbyes.

now, I’ve been an emotionless tied up
concrete human for awhile now it seems but this
interaction made me quietly weep. it

felt good.
it felt human.
It felt needed.

and for the rest of my days, I’ll remember
this canadian man and Ripley, his golden.

fluids and war

I swear, all that
humanity shares are
fluids and war.

transient atlantic

whenever I go on a break from
work, I take a seat on sandy
steps that lead out to the
Atlantic. listen to construction
workers yell as they build a
pier, the machinery humming and
clanking. light up a light blue
american spirit to match my
mood. as
homeless transients
and grey haired vacationers stroll
on behind me, I stare out into
the docile sea and think

I should find out how far I could
get if I walked right in.

bookends

there is nothing like the
sight of lover’s hair draped
over chest, glowing and
drenched.

there is nothing like the
sight of your lover packing
that last box, with middle
finger stretched.

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