Breakup Song

Tell me what will be will be no more
Tell me we just drifted apart
Tell me love hurts
Tell me love scars

Tell me I was your thirst
Tell me you think of me when you hum
Tell me I sweat the small stuff
Tell me to grow a pair

Tell me size more or less matters
Tell me I’m the one that got away
Tell me love is a battlefield
Tell me all you need is lust

Tell me I’m more than a hound dog
Tell me I’m a good boy
Tell me I drove you mild
Tell me I don’t look fat in these jeans

Tell me nice guys let the girl finish first
Tell me you never faked the news
Tell me you bought my book on Amazon
Tell me the shipping was free

Tell me God is binge-watching us
Tell me everybody dies in the end
Tell me I’m a good sinner
Tell me fate isn’t fair

Tell me what will be will be no more
Tell me we just drifted apart
Tell me love hurts
Tell me love scars

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Summer Solstice

Forget snowstorms
And wind chills

I want Summer
In my hemisphere
This Valentine’s

A flirty girl
With strappy shoes
And silver toe rings
To boot

Baring her soles
At the foot
Of my bed

To soothe me
And for me
To soothe

Today In Eden

Today in Eden
Adam’s tall
Dark and handsy

Today in Eden
Eve’s a sucker
For tongue

Today in Eden
Adam models
Mom jeans

Today in Eden
Eve squeezes
Man buns

Today in Eden
Adam bedazzles
Fig leaves

Today in Eden
Eve shops
Forever 21

Today in Eden
Adam worships
Eve’s boots

Today in Eden
Eve swallows
Adam’s gum

Poet’s Market

Against the (cash) flow of the free market, poetry is useless.

Poets practice idle worship.

A poem traffics in elicit non-sense, in that it asks for no response, checks for no pulse.

You can put a price on a poem, but it will never sell (out).

Burn After Reading

Ingeborg Bachmann: “I am writing with my burnt hand about the nature of fire.”

Some questions. Some thoughts.

Where is this fire? Perhaps you’re full of passion, to the point of pain. Should it read instead: “I am writing with my burnt hand about the nature of fire within me”?

About the nature of fire.” Are you holding your hand to the fire? Is it hovering above the flames? Why don’t you remove it?

It sounds like you’re using your hand to write. Another way of seeing things: Is your hand writing all by itself? Are you writing alongside it? Is your body, minus your burnt hand, writing its own material?

Are you using your write hand?

Words can contain fire—a fiery speech, inflammatory language—but words can’t contain a fire, can’t command a fire to stop burning. If we’re angry when we write, are we playing with ire?

When you wrote or spoke this line, were you aware, Ingeborg Bachmann, that a fire in your bedroom would contribute to your death in 1973 at the age of 47? Did you enjoy your last cigarette?