There they are again
in the patchy grass handing cigarettes back and forth
reciting slams. Recognizing the world
for its rhyme scheme. Sure
they look like loiterers but that assumes
too little.

There is cunning and philosophy. What else
could they be
than wanderers on the hottest day, no means
to access the river?
The air conditioner in the public library has fritzed and
penniless for stores close in on them.

One day they’d have been apprentices and trades
for their fingers learning
to be smiths. But here
we raise poets
letting them smoke away on our lawns wallowing
in the void of culture. It is their American dream
to want nothing of their country but live unasked
and irresponsible.

They have learned our stories
and want no part in creating more.
Here we raise guerrillas.

Desiccated (published by Snail Mail Review and The Rag as Tomato Ego)

that tomato is a lesson of my ego

contemplating wrinkles and bruise

the one I told Sarah was delicious

because she picked it

from her vine


this fruit I brag I eat

like apples

with shirts of seed

and squirt to prove it


slow dying and desiccated

its bashful skin whispering

at the zucchini and squash

‘he ate tuna sandwiches all week

and never once sliced me,

he doesn’t care of what’s at home

if no one’s there to see it’