THE DARK NIGHT

 

I never had a "dark night of the soul". 
That would have been 
too fancy, 
too helpful. 
Rather, 
I preferred the routine 
of knocking my head 
against a perpetual, 
relentless, 
screaming 
dusk.

ROMANTICS

romantics are the holy ones

the calloused ones, the brave

with eyes as wide as sea shores,

hearts as dark as graves

addicted to the best in man

blind to faults and scars

oblivious to grief on earth

abandoned to the stars

ant

 

Haiku for smoke detector

something in the hall

chirps every thirty seconds

dirge for Duracell 

Lightning Bugs

Being a writer is being a catcher

A catcher of light in a jar

You never get better

You never get good

Just depends how many there are 

The bugs that shine light

They come or they don’t 

There’s no knowing how many, how bright 

Your job’s to just sit there 

And welcome them enter

Then screw the lid on fucking tight 

The Wilds

I hear crickets out my window now in Brooklyn

And there’s certainly no place I’d rather be

I won’t be heading to the wilds very soon so,

I’m just happy that the wilds came to me

MARBLES

I pick up a marble from a bowl
on my coffee table 
and try to remember. 
Was this mine as a kid?
Did I fish it out of the mud one rainy day?
This orange and white marble is a shooter. 
It’s large, important. 
Is it supposed to mean something to me?
I’ve had it for years. 
Or have I?
Things get fuzzy like that 

when they are left in a bowl on the coffee table for too long.