Prose--
The word sounds like
a precocious writer of essays
involuntarily celibate
standing with shoulders squared
and hands hanging stiffly.
It's not that I hate it
for making less sense
but rather, since I can't dance
pauses through line breaks
and punctuation
compensate for my deficiencies
in whichever life is real.
We sleep because
it's easier than waking
in a one-horse town
that pisses uphill in unison
thirsting for love
and choking on lust
that isn't worth it
compared to our collective
succumbing to loneliness.
Stanzas left to be discovered
like bobby pins on windowsills
depth charges in the darkness
slice and carve and operate
on tile floors in bathrooms.
Pretend you're unaware
that the blood will dry to brown.
It's not a lie if you believe it.
Gamble, spit, suffocate
and fuck with killer rhythm.
Currently reading:
"Rattle: Fall 2017".
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