one, two, three, four.

as i make my way through the cold

winter night

i count the straggling pennies

in the pocket of my jacket. 

as my fingers find each one, each

smooth, sacred surface,

i search the ground for more—

wondering if you’re conscious

or thinking of me. 

the witching hour.

the air grows colder and

leaves crunch underfoot.

stress and agitation trickle down my neck

as i make my way by moonlight and

centuries-old street lamps.

i look behind me

as i force my key into its lock—

always looking back 

as if someone will be waiting for me there. 

my door moans in agitation, 

a sound i can feel in my bones.

the light is already on—

always burning

the midnight oil. 

bankrupt.

let’s not call it a

decision. no,

it’s a necessity,

i fear. 

blinded,

i thought i’d 

kept us alive,

but i’ve found the

only thing left,

lingering, was my own

distress. 

“a lot of people do this,”

she said, “we’re not

the first.” 

no, i think, 

she’s not the first at all. 

a model of innocence, gone and forgotten.

a gentle breeze—

the white lace curtains

swirled and danced, 

imprinting their shadows

on her outstretched

hand.

she stood in the ray

of summer light,

reflecting.

what is so 

significant

about an open window?

he said, she said.

pity,

when their

relationship

was stripped to

its core, it was

nothing but a 

constant war.

i often wonder

who was right,

or if that even

matters. 

what is right

and wrong

when the world

is broken

down to its 

bones?

when

a mother is brought

to her knees?

i knew she couldn’t

come out to play

when her eye was

black and

bruised—

and i’d wonder why it

had to be that way

when he would

sulk,

bottle in hand—

anyone can be

the victim when

their universe is

nothing

but casual chaos. 

i can never remember which way the earth rotates.

summer daze

lost under the heat

of your skin. 

fingers stained cherry

red—

our world has a 

sickly-sweet quality. 

and i can understand

this with perfect

clarity. but

then my arms are

outstretched and i’m

dizzy again. 

we’re everywhere and

nowhere, and

i say 

“hallelujah,”

i’ll never understand. 

locked away in a tower of guilt.

my problem,

i’ve found,

stems from the chaos

of grey areas.

you were never quite my

gallant knight, nor

the fearsome dragon

of lore. 

and before i could

understand

that you didn’t have

to be either/or,

you’d grown tired

of the battle and

slayed them both. 

city lights.

at midnight,

the tree leaves form

a black net,

keeping me from

escaping

to the great grey sky.

far above me,

this sky looms with

love and chaos.

i count the stars

to fall asleep—

one

            two

                         three

and you’re there.

thunder storms.

let it rain—

the sound of the 

storm

getting louder every

minute. 

dark weather for

your [kind] words. 

i’ll go a long way

for a good

ironic joke. 

There is something special about moving out of a childhood home. Something beyond the bitter-sweet nostalgia. I have yet to name it. Maybe I never will.  

The “for sale” sign in the front yard didn’t seem real. Its bold red letters stared mockingly every time I pulled into the driveway. I’d wonder if this was the right decision.

Finally, after months of anticipation, the sign was pulled from the ground, wooden stake caked with mud, and tossed into our mounting pile of garbage. 

Things I thought we’d never throw away found their way to the trash heap. The excuse? “You can’t save everything.” And I guess that’s true. 

Moving day approached quickly. The weather started to cool, and I no longer had an excuse to avoid the shed. Leaves crunched underfoot as I trudged toward the back of the house. The small wooden shed loomed before me like so many broken promises. The door creaked as I pried it open, the smell of stale gasoline greeting me in waves. Everything was tucked neatly in rows— lawnmower, snow thrower, rake, trash can, pool supplies— cleaning should have been an easy task. My eyes fell on the make-shift work bench in the corner. 

I smirked. Years earlier, we’d organized this shed. Together, as a family. I’d looked anxiously to all of the supplies thrown on that table, some of them rusting. 

“Dad,” I’d asked, “are you ever going to clean off that table?”

“Maybe someday,” he’d mused “before I die.”

The way he smiled, it didn’t seem as funny as it should have been. 

I wonder if he’d known. 

lost.

i never knew you
could drown 
on land,
but i can’t
seem to fill my lungs
with enough air.
i know i can’t run
from Myself, but
i think i’m willing
to try.

summer romance.

what defines

sun kissed skin?

the longer days

always leaves her

burned.

but a painful embrace

is better than

none at all. 

the smell of chlorine

embedded in her pores,

the taste of citrus

on her lips—

the very essence of

summer envelops her. 

hair tangled by

the cool night breeze, 

the stars in the pitch

black sky whisper 

sweet nothings—

and she thinks,

that must be 

romance. 

midnight in the countryside.

sitting on the back deck,

drinking coffee and

longing for a cigarette. 

the full moon swallows

the black sky,

and i wonder if you

see that too. 

maybe now you

see a different

moon—

or a moonless sky,

lit by the glare of

a million stars.

or, maybe,

a black void—

nothingness. 

i watch an owl swoon

and wonder what

that must be like.

fatal attraction.

the knowing—

this won’t work out.

we’re dead 

in the water but

disillusioned, i

keep begging

you to 

swim.

misconstrued.

words can’t escape

my clenched teeth. 

my body feels

a scream, 

convulsing 

through my 

being. i

remain 

quiet,

shaking—

anger writhing. 

“how dare you?”

i think,

heart pounding—

“this is my place.” 

but really,

i’ve got

nothing. 

like a moth to a flame.

i’m thoroughly

done with this

moth to a flame

simile.

sure, you draw me

in and seer my

skin—

i can hear my

heart burst open

as the fire takes

over everything.

but,

i don’t care

if you don’t. 

there’s something romantic about driving with the low fuel light on.

i’m often asked 

why 

the floor of 

my car is so

littered.

i’ll never admit

that i

practically live

in that old

dented ford—

constantly settling

in different

places.

i’m drifting 

through snow,

i blink, and

suddenly the

trees are lush 

and green

again. 

i’m running on 

empty, but

the key never

seems to leave

the ignition.

they say working class people have working class kids.

standing barefoot on

our old wooden porch,

paint chipped,

i realize that our 

sleepy little town

will

never change. i take

a drag of a cigarette,

and think i can

appreciate

that. a plume

of white escapes

my mouth to 

create a cloud in

the otherwise

cloudless sky. 

i'd love to sit and reminisce, but my friends are never home.

i remember summer days

when we’d press flowers

between wax pages, and

find ways to scale a

six foot tall picket fence.

how many meters is that?

that’s something you would know

now that the sun has set

on summers and the 

color has faded from our

memories. 

i remember—

we used to chase each other

through what we thought

were miles

of woods, a 

valiant knight and a princess,

(always a princess),

killing or befriending dragons—

depending on the day.

i guess we’ve traded in 

our stick-swords for

something we thought 

would be better. 

truth be told, i’m not 

sure it was the best 

decision—

but they do say we

didn’t have a choice.

there is no such thing as darkness, only the absence of light.

my shadow casts itself

tall and gangly

onto the faded

pavement. it’s 

strange, that something

separate from me

still carries an

awkward quality—

a feeling i thought

i’d tucked away

with the mementos of

my youth.

baptism.

the air is warm, but
the rain chills my
skin with each
large drop, 
raising the hair on
my arms—
seeping into my
pores. 
i often wonder
what it’s like
for you,
each summer storm
packing your
ashes like
mud.

thanks for showing me the way.

i’ve realized christian

ideals are something 

you can 

simply switch on

or off—

beating people

over the head with

a book of 

misquotations

while fucking

your homely

girlfriend

every night. 

very rarely do i

judge, but your

lack of 

commitment 

is simply appalling—

you ate meat every

friday this last

spring. (that

was not referring 

to your girlfriend,

by the way).

even i have some

morals—

so tell me again what

leviticus 

said.