Long is the ramble, I say. Let it flow.
How often do you get to shout at a wall
that never yells back?

‘Always, I guess’ is the answer, but long is what
your rant deserves to be. You’ve been denied
the podium an inordinate amount of time. All the

more reason to not shut-up these days. Wail at all
the walls, just post-up and shout.

You can cry and if you do it in the corner of an alley, no one
will even notice. Only the brick will get a little darker due
to your tears watering the building.

If I were you, I’d just yell and cry.


Fake daisies litter the ground, around, near my feet.
Firmly stuck, still to the earth, they don’t come up high

enough for a breeze to catch them and make them (mark it)

make them say. The wind forces so much on us and around.
Even in a place like here, my vanity follows. Thin legs sway

into my thoughts; they are pressed, crossed on a chair; or some
dirt is on the thigh; boot tops cover ankles and a little more.

I often think about kissing you in that restroom. We could kiss
and rest in that room,
and more.


memes about gamers mean something to me
(because guess what? yeah. I’m a gamer)

so they hurt, okay? like, when you say ‘real
gamers don’t exist’ or ‘all gamers should be

euthanized.’ ouch. d o you know how many knife
kills I have in in WM2? over one thousand. a knife

is an intimate way to kill someone; intimacy denotes

sentimentality, which suggests sensitivity. I’m sensitive.

does a troll not cry? I don’t even make jokes about fucking moms
anymore. my mom had a cancer scare last october, and it really
put things into perspective.


You move more tipsy, and he holds you close
because of this change. The worry is everywhere
about him, but I don’t care.

It’s magic maybe they way we wear each others
emotions, like second nature. It’s fair.
You sparkle sometimes. I notice. Who else?

I can lust. It’s fine. But whether the weather
changes (and how much so) determines a lot.

Anyway, enjoy the rest of the “year”; let’s summer.
If we don’t see each other it would be a bummer.
I still owe you a lunch.


Don’t let go of the hit in front of a white wall.

You’ll not see your smoke, and therefore, feel
as if you’re not getting high. It’s not unlike a child
eating a coconut-flavored snow cone, and, being not able
to see the clear syrup on its ice, cannot taste the coconut.

You’ll burn the bowl again and take another bite of cookie.
A spiral will follow, and in its wake: candy wrappers, chip bags empty,
the game station being left on too long; its automatic shut-down
function finally popping on, the machine rests. And there you are,

stuffed, worthless and spent, another show binged, under your belt.
(you will repeat quotes throughout the week; your family, co-workers rankle)
You snore. Eventually you wake. It has been hours. Maybe five. Your
cellular device blinks in long intermissions. It is Roger and the gang from
earlier in the day. The have all “ripped Tracy’s bong” and are pleading with you
to meet them in the park, the one in the center of the town.

Outside the worlds spins as it spun throughout the day, lazily and steady.
On your side of the world it was a lively 23 degrees Celsius. There were winds
from the east that carried a strong but pleasant push. You missed it all, you fool.

You let go of the hit in front of a white wall.