blank sheets

a dot in a beryl jar, I sip a
strong mash in a beveled
glass- here sways a

goddamn poet with
nothing to write about as past
musae sit taxidermied
mounted in a fit of prose several
years ago. now
in this aroused
stupor, I can only think about a
legs greeting the ceiling in a
pose. hound.

poetry dies in sexual prime cause
all I want is women, all I think
about are women and yet, I’m left
with blank sheets rigid in


ready to peel

monday night. you have had a few
glasses of whisky. you have been
to the bar downstairs, downed a
couple longnecks while fantasizing
about all of the longnecked women in
this joint and how they would look
naked. now
home, you
have peeled two mangos- the third
too hard. you have taken the knife
down to the rinds, fingers still
intact. you have stood on the
balcony smoking orange spirits while
thinking about the women you’ve seen
naked; a thunderstorm in the distance
raging wild and quiet. you
have done
all these
things that mean nothing, all the
while hoping that the third mango
is ripe and ready to
peel tomorrow.

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.