In Poems & Fiction

I bolt awake,

gulp the vacant moment.

Outside, junk skyline,

octopus metal in the twist distance,

the good blinking of it,

while lightning white cars

slow-slither streets.

Everything is an atom of itself.

Death sentences, grisly pretty,

amid light-up shout music.


That leading man,

one lacquered nothing,

wing-sunk and experimenting

in his mirrored charm garden,

painting honeysuckle dust

beneath a summersault sky,


and you,


want’s dream, maundering

in a fierce somewhere, no gravity,

an untethered satellite of yourself,

an avalanche of uncollected sex data.


Lights dim,

a curtain rises.




Appeared in Angels Flight Literary West, September, 2016


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