A Marriage of Murderers

On this, the night of our rendezvous
We will dance to the death in a burning room
Fingers clasped around my neck
Until we give up breathless laughter
My head will rest against you
At long, long last
This life forever to hold and have

Note: This poem contains a brief depiction of violence and suicidal ideation. Reader discretion is advised.



At the corner past the market
Near the tree around the bend
There was a house long left abandoned
By all afraid to meet their end
One brave young buyer came to town one day
Looking for a place to hit the hay
To cook his meals and make someplace
A place to call his home
Little did he know
That he was not alone
First midnights, he would wake up
To a chill and groaning sounds
So then he’d just light up the fireplace
And the house would quiet down
But it persisted in the daytime
Doors would open on their own
The chandelier would rattle
Before it fell heavy like a stone
His soups would spill
His knives would scatter
And sometimes he would trip
In the attic he’d hear clattering
Or in the bathroom drip, drip, drip
The happenings disturbed him, so at twilight
While he was sipping on his tea,
He poured another cup, and offered it:
“Don’t be afraid of me.”

Now midnights, someone tucks him in
With a warm and warbling lullaby
And when it’s lonely, he’d feel the bed
Sink down on the other side
Now at the corner past the market
Near the tree around the bend
There’s an old man brewing oolong
For himself, and for his friend

Millennial Love Song

It’s foam clinging to the inner lip
Of  a half-empty cardboard cup
Or the orange glow of an
Insomniac’s screen, falling
Over a bedspread
Tired eyes seeking a reply
That might not come
Until half past sunrise

It’s alright, it’s alright

It’s moving like a floating bus
Through town down the street
Speaking while saying nothing
Scripts and messages, sending
Kernels, cotton-throated
Tightrope walking over cues
For interactions without guidelines
Love unbounded meanings to blur
Drinking and singing and sleeping over
Sleeping over, no
I have work
I have class
I have a ribcage surrounding my chest
I have to cook and I have to sleep, you know

It’s okay, it’s alright

It’s radio silence to nurture the 
Lives we never asked for
Existing on our feet,
In our stomachs, between our teeth  
And every draft that we pressed delete on
Looming like ghosts as we forward our focus
To strings of workbook text, buzzing slurs on screens
Various scenes of worst cases playing out inside
But I am always just a vibration away
Too slow, too exhausted, too sad to even say

I’m okay, it’s alright

Pineapple Parfait

·         YOGURT
Milky soothing, rolling
Like silk on your tongue
Down your throat, mildly tart
But delightful notes
Milky smooth and lightly sweet
The first layer of a perfect treat
·         GRANOLA
Wholesome wheat and golden honeyed
Oats with cinnamon spice, with nuts and crispy rice
Sweet crunch to complement silky smooth
This is perfect treat’s layer number two
·         PINEAPPLE
Beautifully balanced: sweet and tangy
Juicy bursts of flavor in every bite
Succulent, fibrous as lemon,
But separately tart and hearty
A combination of textures to bring to the party
This layer is a perfect treat’s centerpiece
·         YOGURT
Familiarly milky soothing
Silky smooth and sweet
Down your throat, mildly tart
But delightful notes
Winding down and neat
The last layer of a perfect treat  

red onion

we sure do pick weird hills to
die on, oh
well, i don’t
really mind

just pluck your pruny behind
out of the pool
if you will, and i won’t
blow the whistle
i mean, not like
it’s my call to make, i’m not
the lifeguard or anything
besides, not like i’ve never
dunked my head underwater
moon above me, round as an onion
standing quietly, watching
watching itself in the ripples
do you think the moon
is an onion?
do you think its layers
are holding something special?
do you think it’s guilty
for standing by, watching?
do you think if it could split itself open
it would own up to what it’s seen?
hoo, i am too drunk for this
what am i even asking?
oh, what’s that?
would i go skinny dipping
if you held out the full moon
and painted it red?
yeah, maybe
red onions are sweet and all
but if you don’t hold your breath
they’ll still make you cry
so let’s take this up next time
let it soak, y’know?
still testing out these old lungs and
i’m thinking oxygen’s real swell

King of Cups

At the crown of the mountain
Above the dandelion sea
Sat a gray-bearded elder
Pouring water for his tea

As he brewed, he was brooding
The first sip bittersweet
Upon that thought of his weapon
Stained by dear memory
There was no honey to sweeten
Over the deed to be done
When a tug at his coattail
Pulled his sights to his son


As the skylines reddened
He began down the path
Holding fast to his blade
And his little boy’s hand
Every step fell down heavy
Until the soft flowerbed
His son agreed, quite at ease
It was a good place to rest
Done, the king tucked him
Into the dirt like a seed
Looked to heaven for rain
And was told only to weep


So he returned to his throne
No longer able to cry
Just drank and drank to the hauntings
Of one last lullaby