Month: July 2016


dreamt that I was in bed with
my lover and she had our child
in her stomach. felt surges of
meaning, of love.

head rested on her belly- my
hand grazed the peach fuzz on her
arm, her hands ran through my
hair, from crown to forehead.

a warm beam of sunlight painted
us through opalesque crème
curtains- my eyes followed the
particles graceful swirl- felt
like one myself, cumulus and

kissed her risen naval through a
thin white cotton, moved up to
her shoulder, her mouth. we smiled
as we fervently kissed in short bursts.

awoke to another shooting,
another explosion,
another horror.

beautiful dream but I shall keep
it there, somewhere
between five and six am. I will keep
it hidden in that
Freudian frustrated desire.

why should I lend my seed to this butcher

you look sad

solo in
some hip logan
square bar. everyone here should
be on a magazine cover. the chatter
and laughter lift to the raised
parquet ceiling; it

hangs there in youthful grace then
slowly flutters down like halo’d
snow. feelin good for the first time
in a stretch. order my whisky and scan
the room for beauties- fuck that you
are here to observe. take
notebook outta
back pocket and ballpoint outta front to
scribble what I see. what I see are three
fresh cheek blush brushed world beaters now at
the bar
next to me. I scan the brunette closest; heels
to legs to

hips to peach halter to eyes and
shes looking at me, smilin’. feelin like I
got some legs now, some confidence finally
blooming so I say,

“how are you doing?”
she says,
“you look sad.”

I down my whisky, exit the photoshoot quickly
and hail a yellow.


2/3rds into a bottle of cheap cab,
I gaze over to my phone hoping that
a beautiful woman will text me but
that won’t happen. so, i’ll pretend
to be a poet as my senses go all
abstract and pure-

keep thinking back on that moment earlier
at a local coffeeshop. feet propped up
on a metal chair, the sun baking my
brains while reading a k. dick book


bakes my brains. look up and see four
young bucks on bikes stopping at the
intersection, the one in the back yells,

“hey, where are we going?”
leader of the pack says,
“to get some ice cream!”

then see a man, probably early twenties,
on bike crossing the other side. pull
sunglasses off and flip them, peer into
puffy eyed self and say:

“I know you want to be part of this, but if
you get on a bike, the burnt out cilia will
make you think twice. just go home bucko,
drink those lesser grapes, light another smoke
and stare at that phone that will never buzz a
brunette beauty begging for your company.”

tick, tick, tick

burned through a couple of dates this
past weekend, nodded with their
words but my eyes are dead and they
could tell. being in my early thirties,
I see that we are all

much closer to settling for something
that would have seemed dull and
flaccid ten years prior. I could
tell these career women that

I was a homeless street juggler as
I chain smoked and drank doubles yet
they would still search for just a
fucking sliver of one evolutionary
trait that would

allow their wombs to concede.