Each mistake’s pre-medicated with leftover medication. It won’t make decisions simpler but the raspberry aftermath swirl of it will wipe enough of the post-pain, immediate revelatory judgement, and when you face her next you’ll be reinforced with a certificate, cotton or blind belief you’re a hundred percent over this shit.


Who Are You Talking To Right Now?

I wanted clunkless transition. But reminders, like the mug with your workplace name, your date-setting, another place-setter, like I don’t make decisions anymore, clear.

Except every decision’s been you. I’ve been Monopoly banker to syphon secret fifties, five hundreds, so your sheet thread count’s double and our kids can make college mistakes.

But perimeter setter, wife of last year. You pen me like a store bought pet, who’s only ever known glass or wire or a hole-cut cardboard box as home since eye opening.

Who are you talking to? Right now. It’s like you’re script written, checking the boxes on Facebook for notifications you’d like to receive, and News Feed events you can do without.



I didn’t give you a friendship bracelet or a cheap metal pendant. Should’ve. Maybe then I’d remember, looking at it, why I chose you.

Silly to think there’s choice, that this isn’t a shit-storm of accident, hierarchical puppetry, occupations drawn together like code strings.

Forgive me, Will, but it’s better reason than silver I betray you. And when the crow asks, tell him, I could’ve strung your heart like Thanksgiving meat, but I kept you, close, like Krueger.

I’ll sweat you in my dreams, with endorphins.



Jack said solve the puzzle so I solved it. He said, “Puzzles are hard. You must learn first. Take a course in it.” But I’d done crosswords, thought how hard can it be? Like a hundred times but more?

When the help died, the experts face shot, frail defenders, I solved the puzzle. Took a wild right guess. Home at the end of it. Oddless, flukey, kind of contrived, but contrived is true, sometimes.


Just Give Me The Chance To Bury My Dead

I could just die now. Any slit, pill, shot, lucky punch to the head. But there’s no cross off yet. Bucket list long like ancient scrolls, designated as scriptures, may as well be allegory, fairy story, for all we’ll ever know.

If I died now, I’d never see my wife’s roots, IMAX, hear my daughter’s sentence spit graduate from bile, meet who my son chooses.

Missed every perfect end point, before people found out what I did, and even reason can’t evaporate, like custard powder right out of milk, each sin that’s not a sin because that’s a religious thing and I’m not religious now.

We’re all, effectively, ambiguous morally. It’s another man-made constraint like don’t chew gum on the shop floor, no personal phone calls. And the dust is kind of comforting.



Jack says, “Pinpoint the moment. Tell it,” but I don’t have the clarity he does which could measure a friend in increments like a Gwyneth Paltrow recipe, totally carb free. Then, what’s left?

“A series of shifts,” I tell him, “the smallest dialogue segment, owning a crease in his face, until he absolute knew who he was, the first time in 50 years.”

But Jack doesn’t get it. Thinks Jesse’s the obvious choice, at my age, star sign, BMI, diabetes probability. I know that he’s right but I couldn’t talk myself into a thing except god which doesn’t make me weak but hopeful.

I’m hopeful, Walt. Hopeful.


You Really Know Me, Don’t You?

I stick in your head
like mother’s roast pudding
Brad Pitt’s hairline
celebrity runs
stuck on abs
the curve of augmentation.

And you owe me
learn in your sleep
like a night terror until
I’m cemented allegory
pass-on-able gossip
season 4 back story.

And you think if one day
I’m desperate like you
if I get encephalitis
I’ll consider it.

Sure. Sure I will, guy.
I’ll give it my best review.
know me

Is It Impossible?

His knee could be an accident

spilling someone’s drink

an ill-timed road crossing

but it’s not.

It’s not.

His leg moves like a building site crane

clumsy through binoculars, but, actually

it’s the precisest of men working levers

making sure he doesn’t bulldoze wrong buildings.

And he’s waited 5 months to bulldoze you.

When will you let him bulldoze you?

No-one cares, helps or hopes you

will be here tomorrow

and if he’s only, bar Peggy, who once

not now though

why not hard hat blue collar outside?

Why not like maybe?

true love