my stomach aches
i’ve fasted for forty days
only bread & water
to prove my virtuous ways
this is the fast-track to heaven
i’m hollow in fun-house mirrors
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These Damn Angels (a poem)
what’s all this talk of
angels hunched over
in storm-clouds with
their harps, waiting for me
to make a mistake so
they can swoop down
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Lies about Kabbalah (a poem)
i’m not allowed to study
the kabbalah ‘til I’m forty years old
but I take sneak peeks
(i never do as I’m told)
but that’s a lie!
i’m not jewish & I wouldn’t
understand kabbalah anyway
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Rock the Vote! (a prose poem)
Get out and vote like your life depends on it! It just may, you say, as we shimmy and shake into dreadful October daze, lost in a maze of misinfo, throwing our weight behind causes, coalitions, fighting a collapsing system with credit cards –
– get that Amazon Prime delivery straight to your door, before November third, when the third rock from the sun glitters in the galaxy from light years away with bloody-red shouts heard in the coldness of the space race –
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Wormwood (flash fiction)
The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.
Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.
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The Neighbor’s Vegetables (a poem)
The neighbor talks to me as she tends her vegetable garden –
she talks at me is more like it; I hardly get a word in, you see.
She says, “All Lives Matter;” I bite my tongue,
let her ramble, not knowing what’s bouncing in that brain.
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Beware of the Apartment People (a poem)
The people in this apartment complex are so nice!
They smile, ask how I’m doing
I can tell they mean it by their bright eyes,
gentle body language, the way they speak of
this complex as a community.
But why does it seem so strange?
Behind these pearly-white smiles,
are they planning my demise?
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Honest Mechanic (a poem)
Who does he think he is?
Showing me old car parts?
Save the hard sell for the senile old lady
you grease-stained Bernie Madoff.
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