From “The Usual Suspects.”

Two weeks ago,

I saw the way drops of

water cut through stone, as I had been,

for nearly six months,

looking for a metaphor

to the meaning of life during a

particularly suffocating ennui.


I almost

risked it all for

a numb desperation

to surface.




In the cave and in the hollow,

the path led to death.


On my way out,

I had to touch the moss on

the rocks, all of it, I had to

feel, with my own hands,

the meaning of life, that which

is life,

is growth despite

cold static flow and

evaporating desert chords,

your ultra-low kill,

my yellowing breath,

my skeletal roots,

impossible and


Toledo, Ohio: Post-Partum

I need you to

undo all of this.


The helicopter

on the walk with my son

is from some other time.


The rescue workers, the police

strike more rage and fear within me

in a vacant country park

than this city’s heroin epidemic.


I’ve told you all this before,

remember the songs and the poems

you wrote me

on our walk to the asylum?


What have you done to my son, to us?

The bond between mother and child, a

broken glass spectacle of coins.


The bitches on my block symbolize

for me to stay out of the cupboard while

monsters rip him, my son

from my arms, more than likely,

heading south.


Leaving the gas station,

I am nothing except

phantom labor pains

and awakening sobs.







(Robert Rauschenberg, Winner Spinner, 2000.)


A radiating sun resurrected

from dissipating planets,

implicated guns in the water,

wiping cum off my tits,

at the ready,

the most beautiful women

you’ve ever seen;

my soul belongs

to the broken ones.


Power is an illusion,

power is a blacklight rose,

and is temporary.


All the ways I have

pictured you dying,

waiting like the elevator man,

holding the gardens of your life like 

old, old compositions,

not even attempting to stop the

way my mind always goes

back to him regardless of how

he has hurt and misunderstood me.


Over the bridge,

you almost convinced me that

no decent woman

thinks these kinds of thoughts.


It was a dying second on the edge

of life, another calculated


a trap I barely escaped, an

opportunistic wound never allowed

to heal, still waiting,

always make-believing you would take

me from these broken burns, take

me anywhere beyond dreamless sleep

and storms.