i’ve been sick since christmas eve eve

so mad at those old

chill-ass japanese

poets who wrote

haikus about nature

and not free verse

diatribes circling

around the drain

of failed relationships

tacked to your brain

like old newspapers

read this in that

fake slam poet voice,

the one that craves


                      the one

who thinks a lilt

makes a point, who

smiles wryly after

saying something

pithy, pauses after the

Most Important Word
in case you didn’t

hear it.

we all heard it. the room

is silent.

imagine the

slip of moonbeam

light across the water,

how you sit there

cross-legged with

slow breath, a crisp

swirling autumn wind,

it cradles you, gives

life to you—


& here we are,

shallow and ragged,

can't get her out of

your head and

somehow, you

decide that is a

badge worn, a purple

heart in the face of

bravery against the

golden-haired goddess.

you think you are free

but all your poetry is

about that person

you keep them closer

than anyone else.

closer than the winter chill

that flecks your skin.

you are trapped with them

because you swallowed the

key in the name of art.

you're gonna have to

puke up that key, baby


The moon in the water;

Broken and broken again,

Still it is there