a house of broken parts
Saturday, August 16th, 2014The doorknob gives up.
The faucet cries endlessly.
The thermostat fries.
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The doorknob gives up.
The faucet cries endlessly.
The thermostat fries.
• • •
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Boarded-up windows,
the empty streets, while my broth-
er’s down on his knees.
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A town divided:
an oppressive regime and
wary citizens.
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I found my syndrome
online and asked my Facebook
friends how to treat it.
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Even as a long-
standing poet, he choked on
the right words for her.
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Drunk in bed one, head
wound with seizures in bed two,
car crash incoming.
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I sometimes use I,
but merely in the sense of
the literary.
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Park, not too early,
at the Hardee’s. Honk at friends,
and ogle the girls.
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Old comic books as
screenplays? Too trendy. Time for
haiku-driven scripts.
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She was troubled by
the petty and the pissy.
She kept them hidden.
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They met one evening.
He would stay with her always.
She left him for Death.
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The count stayed in his
head, even as he shunned small
talk and stepped on toes.
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Winged electrons swirl
around a head nucleus,
fission for a fight.
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A usurper of
attention, a haunter of
dreams, a foe of all.
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Craft bourbon ripple
bought with bartered vintage socks.
Deafheaven on loop.
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