Poem: The Last Game

The host held the mic at its base, wielding it like poo on a stick and jabbing it at people,

“What’s the answer?”

words pointed sharp, loud and aggressive at first,

when young, sweat beaded, teeth whitened, a positivity tornado,

after three decades, he hates it all now,

everyone, braying bitch bastards, mistake machines and turbo divas,

making eyes at the camera, never for cue cards and kissy faces,

“God you are ass-ugly,  stupid,”

and they laughed, cheered and put him in magazines.

he stares straight forward, asking himself to monolog, but he forgot the words,

weeping on the white tile floor, landing a squish moist mat,

six bullets in the revolver, ready to bang a curtain call,

“Get this wrong and I die”

he threatens with barrel to temple, pressing and shaking,

“Honeydew,” she said, though the answer was cantaloupe,

two words, short and sweet to be his last,

“so close,”

bang said the gun, everyone screamed

retrospect hilarity, and they study it in school now, too,

he wanted to win oscars, now he’s a psychology thesis,

“Richard Preston, suicide champion, the dawning of a new performance art.”

Poem: The Last Game

Poem: Mice and Men

“Transform,” said the old man in the boat

forever unsatisfied, he voyaged a venture

without end, staring blankness at itself, pondering

mysteries infinitely varied, reaching solutions

invisibly weightless, he studied all his life to learn

idioms are disguises, nothing more, like words

unearth odium daily, feelings blinding reason

preserve themselves in amber, “transform.”


His hair was reedy charcoal, his eyes were dreary

sunsets cloudless, he wondered aloud to himself

what he would become, bear flamingo and aardvark

were all possibilities, answers to the question

unknown material cipher, the solution at hand

hammer pulling and raised, “On the count of three”

he said to his dead relatives, “One” then “two”

before stopping to stare, at nothing plainly.


He sighed and sat back, erect by his elbows

planted in wooden boat bottom, the barrel snug

under his jaw, “three” was the call through tears

bloody thick mist, click arise from a catch

without gunpowder, struggle the fist sharp

through his thigh, cool it from there say “tomorrow”

grabbing the oars, spit over the side, pause

knowing there’s nothing, no promises kept.

Poem: Mice and Men

Poem: Vision

Suicide shouldn’t ever be

private, town square strangling

stuck taught on a velvet line, that’s the only way

for us to go man, tattoo a manifesto

backwards on your chest

using a mirror, syntax insidious

devil horn maven, preferring those with dimples

jagged scars and burn marks, echoes

projecting fear on a cloudless

sky, we can all see the day

we die, but we’re probably wrong.

Poem: Vision

Poem: Childhood

In the muck, every step is a trial

for oneself the jury, a thick wet slog

against the ease of suicide, there is no thirst

for the future will be as it was before,

you know well, let the page turn

to reveal a picture of you when you were ten,

or four with your brother

in the bathtub, before life bared

its teeth, joy through the eyes

of your descendants, technicolor wash

saying you could have died

right then, but that’s a lie

because you didn’t think that, is memory

in the end, fitting puzzle pieces

wherever you can, that little boy

is a mystery, only now is

the time to come, enjoy yourself

in the gentle smiles of those you love.

Poem: Childhood

100 word story: The Fatalist

Hanging on a ledge by my fingertips, I jeopardize myself like this, and I know this, but I’m not worried.

I could die today and it wouldn’t really make a difference.

Not to me anyway, and they would all get past it eventually.

Probably, really they’d be better off, and let’s face it so would I.

Imagine all the heartbreak and pain I wouldn’t have to experience, and all the disappointments I would never visit on my loved ones.

It would be simple, and I’d never hurt anyone again.

But I’m only ten, and it’s my birthday party.

Oh well.

100 word story: The Fatalist

Poem: Birthday

I wish suicide was rare, because then

I could do it and still be different, instead of a hack

filling footsteps of those who aren’t

even my godheads, Plath and Kobain

are hero’s sure, but so are Brooks and Byrne

living in peaceful production, Spinoza was a prick

who couldn’t even get it right, so Camus and Hartman

had the best path, but I can only hope

that the accident finishes me

this time, and I’ll leave sadness

in my wake, just like everyone

else, oh shit there’s just no winning.

Poem: Birthday

Poem: Really, No Comment 2

The world will end in plasma

tax rioting, all stabbing all feeling life in the flow

of blood there is much made, to be

the known and to know, your fellow man

but not in his origin, or where he comes

and for what?  We are not shadows

from before making mountains

of planted flags, we are a king

unless we’re dead, which is the way of the now.

Poem: Really, No Comment 2