—IF IT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER, YOU CAN HAVE THE LAST WORD

Every Hollow Star

I am gauging my net worth,

that currency of despair.
I’m rich with it,
weighed down like an
anchor that’s been tossed.
Nothing said can ever
really be taken back.
It all gets recorded and archived,
and so the longest moments
become a black rainbow,
an unwelcome smear
overtaking the sky.
Looking up I see the bottom,
a water well without end,
no tarp or trampoline.
When I finally find them
every hollow star
says the same thing
without a hint of irony:
So much wasted time.

 

White Winter Hymnal

What greets me is
the sound of snow melt
leaping off the roof,
an encrusted suicide attempt
so early this morning.
Everything beautiful wants
to die in a hurry.
No one will say why.
The obstinate trees
cling to old ways,
unwilling to shake
any branches clean
until their coats of ice
have crushed them.
Hoodlum clouds
wait in the wings,
licking their chops,
too lazy or clever
to work for a living.
This winter has been
one for the ages and
yet it’s only just begun.
Even the keyboard
types out slurs
while each blank page
is riddled with hysterics.
Outside the lake convulses
for no reason,
belching up bloated catfish
and someone’s lonely bones.
When viewed
from the right angle,
the waves resemble
a cadaver’s skin,
something similar
to what I see
in the unshattered parts
of my cracked mirror.

 

Methodology

Van Gogh would

drink yellow paint.
Picasso had his
blue period while
the early Roman Catholics
favored self-flagellation.
I’m still searching
for my method.
If you have a suggestion,
please pass it on.
I promise I’ll
give it my best
college try.
I’ll be obedient
instead of picky this time.
I’ll follow every instruction.