Run, mad bastards
Run, mad bastards. Run because you can. Run because it matters even if it doesn’t. Run because someone put the finish line over there. Run after the ghosts of y...
Category: Poetry
Mystery of meat
A poem about my brain. My wife often says she can hear me thinking, so I got to wondering what my brain sounds like. Is it a mystery of meat or a steampunk marv...
Fake poetry
Fake poetry Let me tell you about poetry. You can’t believe anything these days. Even this poem is fake. I found it on the internet. You don’t know if that’s tr...
Artist (a poem)
I just rediscovered this poem I wrote years ago about a coffee barista. It's nice to be reunited.
First tummy bug
Something different about his cry / two wide eyes in the dark / the tang of sick scratching the air
Cumulonimbus
Look how firmly it sits on whatever glass table spans the horizon. A continent of billowing sunlight, shifting walls of explosion