Acorns shattered my windshield
beyond repair; my mirrors
crackle like pop rocks with the engine on,
deepening each fracture.

Endure, dear Versa,
for I cannot afford to fix you; your headlights
glared halfway across the dock
humming in anticipation.

I planned this; whatever
joy falls after sunset will carry me,
keep my insides safe, until
liquid density pops my ears at the bottom.

My eyes will become marmalade, spread
now across the ocean floor,
opening wide to catch a look at                  
pelicans above fishing for my organs.

Queer theories of man-eating fish
rip past the metal plating,
struggle through narrow gashes
to eviscerate my bloated form.

Underwater is where I will become
volumes more a woman than
what I am now. I will make sure to
Xerox you the results later.

You left me no copilot, my battery at
zero in a watery coffin.


temporary stationary

thank you for pulling me away
from homes that did not care for me
then pushing me toward the familial warmth that never left

thank you for keeping a globe in your living room
as a subtle reminder
that you travel a boundless, divergent path

thank you thank you thank you
for keeping me up past 3 am
for pulling apart these temporal lobes
for whisking memory past frothy dream
into the panna cotta present, a savored sweet

thank you for the moment
thank you for consistency
thank you for staying private
so you could win in secrecy


Hacking on the smoke of a borrowed cigarette,
after hearing the news of our stillbirth
and wondering what that means for Anne and I

I am reminded that I come from a long line of stonemasons,

those few who specialize in the art of tombstone crafting.

Hours upon years,
all were lost by the Great Jonathan Morehouse,
born and raised in the Adirondacks.
He’d mutter Hail Mary in a drunken haze
at paintings of saints
in display before the annual art fair at St. Michael’s churchyard
under an oppressive July fourth, mid afternoon sun.

Molding, engraving
breaking, embracing
slabs now placed above plots of land
which were once Great Aunt Maureen,
Great Uncle Maxwell,
and Gene Radner, the lone dentist of New Hartford.

While Jonathan blackened his lungs into a familial crest,
Little Leslie “Bugga” Morehouse,
sat inside, counting his own hours.
hunched over, he learned lessons no longer in line with modern Roman Catholic doctrine
found in readings from the Book of Wisdom,
which laid forth visions of an inscrutable future.

A tank
trapped in a hole.

Sundays spent
reading newspaper on the toilet

Defensive ends
jumping off waterfalls.

A city
An arson capital.

A mausoleum
bearing treasure buried beneath Utica Club.

A child’s spine,
bent at an unnatural curvature.

Yet it always ended with a story of his son,
born with a hole in his heart,
who heaved, grasping for his father’s hand
over the register at Morehouse Appliances,
as the now Great Bugga Morehouse
inhaled scotch in a cracked out alleyway
across the street, on Cross Street,
muttering Hail Mary.

Little Leslie gasped
at his unfortunate blessing
as an umbilical cord
from ascendant burial grounds
unfurled from a family tree,
wrapping around his neck.

I am with him in that church, in that alley
and we stand together now
outside Buffalo General Hospital.

I can’t bury a nameless boy
but Bugga chokes once more,
as if to reiterate
that we come from a long line of stonemasons.


Our soul’s privately, spinelessly spun self-examination,
a dulled collective, selective, set orientation,
is performed in high metaphor,
with sense of eccentric discrimination.

Copulation’s devolved in a pool above ground
once closed by late autumn, now open year-round.

In a gated community,
forced, relocated unity
with oceans in view across fires of mass mutiny.

As the deep end is crossed,
when all investment’s lost,
we’ll continue to accrue countless insurance costs.

Vanilla conquests climax, baptism’s prism of restriction;
the prophecies we penned from wholly historical fiction.

orange futon fever dream

In a skyward send off, we’re a flesh-bound kite,
and our impulse to jump extends beyond flight.

Common convergence, a simple, systematic crash,
our flawed jaws naturally gnash teeth and talk trash.

They shot metal to our temples, we grew an armored epidermis.
We chew fingernails like trail mix, drink blood straight out a thermos.

Though our insides have turned out, we all die on a byway.
But I will pass on like Sinatra if you pretend I did it my way.

hollow sidewalks ahead

My face is worn, rung out.
I bit my own tongue out.
I observe, dissect, speculate until I’ve siphoned all the fun out

From these suppers we take uptown,
Where we fought to live and get down.
Eat pasta at Gina’s while complimentary mouth sounds

Escape you, but I’m too weak
To ride sound waves. Don’t speak.
This afternoon felt like two weeks.
I wear soiled threads, shorts reek.

Lips chapped while eyes leak.
Glottal assertion, turned cheek,
Directionless, erection-less, it’s safe to assume that we’ve long since peaked.

I believe I need you,  yet I refuse to read you,
And the more you grow the less I feed you.