haiku (6/22/2017)

“what is the half-life of happiness?” asks the dog,

his left ear torn and crumpled, eyes moist with tears,

and his owner smoked on the porch and the grass kept growing.


haiku (6/21/2017)

running through a field of dandelions, freshly sprung,

we wipe the spores that stick to us after the wind gusts,

unaware of the weeds we have become.



the girl plunges beneath the rolling waves,

her carefully plaited hair a matted mass of soggy

kelp on the foamy surface. she blows measured breaths

among the colorful coral, chalky and hard, perhaps

the bones of some precambrian leviathan, now languishing

in a place invisible to even the imagination. she finds

herself in the shambles of a sunken ship with a tall mast

still standing amid the wreckage where she misremembers

the grandeur of a sail she has never seen. she stuffs

her pockets with coins from the hull and she is suddenly

weighed down with the heaviness of mammon and

the eternal grudge of the unvindicated dead, but still,

she ascends the layers of darkness until she pierces

the clear blue surface, blind and whistling,

she flippers her way forward in the absence of light,

free from the long, slimy stream of yesterdays

flowing behind her, into the bay.

terrariums we live inside

terrariums we live inside

thermometers measuring our frigid lives,

leaves that stretch and curl, pushing against

the soil-stained glass. he who grows first

dies last, in this place where present and past

are tense within the same sentence, flora

that flaunt their hues, yet recoil from the tasteless

tedium of growing, aware that they will never

unlatch the lid, not even with knowing.


the insipid lives of arachnids

the insipid lives of arachnids

dead on a dusty windowsill, the once menacing

spider sits among the desiccated bodies

of unfortunate insects ensnared in his web,

before the light leaves the half-cracked blinds


and before life’s last wispy strand recedes

from his tired eyes, he muses on how

he would hold a fly with his forelegs,

and with his pincers, slowly suck and savor

the meat of the thorax, oblivious to the urgent buzzing.


he was king of the unkept corners and crannies.

once vanquisher, now vanquished,

banished to the cupboards of consciousness.

today is the day

today is the day

when daisies sprout from your eye sockets,

and you vomit copper coins

and life yanks you from your dreams, spinning

in your swivel chair like a careless child or a demented clerk,

when you put squirrels upon your feet

and pour a cup of piping hot regret,

you will face the mirror and find

your shadow gazing back.