The misdemeanors broke their rock all day. We felons pushed ours up the mountain of our crimes. And there at the summit the setting sun swallowed us. Even imagined prisoners need rest. The body has limits; bones obey the dark law.
My greatest legacy, the Sistine Chapel, would not have built without creative financing – nor would my nephew’s hiring of Michelangelo to paint the ceiling been possible – and given the tourists something to marvel over.
Maybe she wouldn’t even graduate from high school. She might become chronically ill because of it, incapable of attending or learning. Or Steve would die. Her father might die on her.
if the can, once opened,
can never again be sealed,
what happens when the nutrients
are more greedy than green
“Who are we fighting?” asked a farmer who stopped his wagon to watch the firing squad form up. Everything that wasn’t predator was prey.
the limbs of his mind
the ligaments
of his argument
strained to the point
of spraining
The rain hit hard today
not in a sexy way
but like my boyfriend was
mad at me. I felt the tension
when I pressed my erection
against him, so I stole his car.
They lifted their skirts with precise fingers and really went to it, circling each other, laughing and snorting, the tall one and the short one. Their dance became wilder as they flung their arms this way and that.
Sneaks under shadows lurking
in corners ready to rear its head
folded in neat lab reports charting
white blood cells over edge running wild.
This drives the pair of us ever into quarrelsome, awkward conflict; the incompatible impasse of our binary, opposite goals, frictions generating perpetually make for quotidian frustrations again and again.
“See if you understand this: my name is Calvin, everyone calls me Fish, but my father wrote his suicide note to Cyrano. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m saying, that I am not, and never have been, a good son?”
