To Whom It May [Not] Concern:

I, [state your name], 

was nothing

short of mortified

by the wasteful void

at the bottom

right corner

of p. 62

in November's 

tidal issue.

I clipped the poems

apart with scissors

that cut me once

and rearranged 

them in five ways

that preserved space

for an even longer

spilling of one's guts

than the one-ninth

of a page

which your design team

deemed unfit 

for local souls

to purge.

I'm keeping this plea

short and unsweet

for the sake of brevity

in the hopes

that it takes up less space

in your Trash email folder

since it won't adorn

your publication

but please

for the sake of those

who need this catharsis

and validation

in order to survive

keep this in mind

when laying out

what's more than words.

Sincerely,

Everyone Who's Bled on Your Pages

There's a Paywall to Your Happiness

This is the first time

I'm saying this

but I know

that I'm dying.

My hair's falling out

in clumps

fistfuls in the shower;

the blame I used to shift.

My time here's fleeting

like a pre-coffee glance

at gas station boner pills

glistening in dusty plastic

on the foreign clerk's counter

between his calls to home.

Several times a day 

I reach to place items

on a table that's no longer there;

a precursor to a tasty oblivion

obnoxious in the present.

The box fan in the window's

not blowing the smoke out

fast enough

against a whipping wind

that's left from this hurricane.

Even the smell

of my father's basement:

smoke and must 

and wood from the '30s

can't comfort me any more;

a lease signed

away from me

that won't be broken.

How could you?

A sailor to some

a cowboy to few

recalcitrant misfit to most;

here is the lie

I told:

We're all dying

some slower

and more blessed 

than others.

We count our days left

on calendars

fingers and toes.

Currently reading:

"Bagombo Snuff Box" by Kurt Vonnegut.