About a fly

it hovers, then
upon your forearm
hope-curious and tentative


you see it has
eyes like mosaics and
iridescence in the twitch
its wings


it moves in a sort of
stares in a sort of

eyes like shattered mirrors
wide and faceted and eager,


it is a persistent and incomprehensible


Your dismissing gesture crushes me.


Drunk Poetry II: Do not go gentle into that fine ass

Hello folks. It’s been a while since my last post. I spent this year doing a different sort of job, and it kept me more busy than I had anticipated it would. Entirely worth the time, mind you. I find myself left with a lot to think about.

I have not abandoned writing, while I’ve been quieter here. I have kept up poetry for myself and friends, and have submitted a short story for a Best Men’s Erotica anthology with Burning Book Press. But I haven’t been writing at the volume I did during and after National Poetry Month last year, and haven’t spent as much time polishing things up to share publicly.

I have two weeks vacation now, and figure I can use this time to break the silence. I wrote a villanelle this weekend to thank a friend for his gifts of booze, which I was sampling generously at the time of writing. It is based on the poem Do not go gentle into that good night, by Dylan Thomas. I would like to share it with you.

Do not go gentle into that fine ass

Do not go gentle into that fine ass,
Sphincters should burn and clench at close of night;
Thrust, thrust, against the amply mounded mass!

When one’s presented that rotund crevasse
Respond with shlicking rounds of phallic flight,
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.

That they might seem to be of higher class
Does not assure that they’d protest or fight,
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

The screaming’s no request to end it fast,
Toss them a pillow and tell them to bite;
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.

And when their voice begins to break and rasp
Take pleasure in those hymns of anal plight,
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

And they, catching their breath, will glare and gasp
Curse, bless you with fierce tears of pained delight–
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

Thirty years

Thirty years in, Mr. Kent fell again
for the Ms. Kent he’d loved the first three.
She’d been a slip of a girl then with
sweet eyes and a
dancing gait
smooth legs
under a cotton skirt;
the memory
crept to his side in stolen minutes
or idle hours
when he could lie with it a while
and feel relieved.

Ms. Kent was a woman
who aged quietly,
shrinking with little opposition
into the hollows between her bones.

Still, she liked sometimes to go out
and find some manically colored dress
to take home and try on for just herself.
She’d pull the fabric to her hips
and let it drop to her calves–
It’d drop
like a sheet over a portrait.

steps to maintaining a Functional Relationship

“Take more care of yourself.”
Friend said
from behind a plastic clipboard
and wire-framed glasses.
“Communicate your feelings.”
I nodded
and tucked away
this piece of advice with the others.

It was the evening after
when I waded waist-deep
into stagnant waters
and dredged up a heart and
three empty littered cans.
The cans I tossed back,
but the organ I cradled a bit
in one arm while
with the other hand
I smeared away the mud and algae.

It absorbed me the way
the thing throbbed so
fatty red
underneath my fingers,
helplessly vital
with the aortic valve
gasping open and closed,
like the scrunched lips
of a crying babe.

I looked at it and, making a decision,
carried it the half mile home,
to drop it on the kitchen table,
where He looked at it
like a sodden boot
and asked what I was getting at.

I wiped my muddied hands off
on the front of my dress
and told him
it could be a conversation piece.

He repeated, with patient irritation,
that he wasn’t much for conversing
and got up to our room
to go to sleep.

I sat a while in silence.
Then, picked the heart up off the table,
and mopped up the mess.

The next afternoon,
He sat in his chair
reading his paper
while I worked
to the murmur of my thoughts.
He glanced up eventually,
and asked about dinner.

I wiped my bloodied hands off
on the front of my dress
and told him
I’d prepared a small meatloaf.

He nodded and scratched his stomach,
so I left to set the table.

Our forks whispered back and forth
over the ceramic of our plates.
We looked at our laps
and filled our mouths.

“You’re making steps”
Friend said
from behind a plastic clipboard
and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Relationships require compromise.”
I nodded
and tucked away
this piece of advice with the others.



Fwew, turns out that moving involves a lot of paperwork. Anywho, popping in here amidst the madness to break the radio silence. Take care folks. 🙂


Smithy’s Drunk Poetry

So yesterday, I was splitting a scorpion bowl with a friend of mine at a tasty Hibachi place.


About halfway through the meal the alcohol went to my head–and by the end of the meal, I was slurring a bit. Naturally, my decision at this juncture was that I should pull out my phone and begin texting my partner about Mr. Junior–his penis. This was not an unusual gesture; drunk texting his penis has become a bit of a tradition between us, a form of affection. Yet yesterday I had received good news that put me in a particularly inspired mood, and I decided that the regular cock compliments would not suffice. This time, his penis needed poetry.

The following texts were what ensued.


Thu, May 30, 2013


…I love your penis. And scorpion bowls.


A limerick:

I met Mr. Junior one day
and asked for a roll in the hay.
Mr. Junior said no,
and called me a Ho.
Since then I have been a clinically diagnosed alcoholic.


Haha! I joke. I’m not an alcoholic. I just cry and fap a lot.


Haha! I joke again.


It’s mostly crying.


There was no immediate response. Forgetting it a while, I went to a friend’s house, watched a terrible movie, sobered up, and went home.

It wasn’t until the next morning that my partner responded, asking me if I’d had a fun night and expressing his belief that as a poetry blogger, I had a duty to share the whole debacle with the internet. I hope you found this enjoyable.

Image credit: http://dtfjihky7xwic.cloudfront.net/sites/default/files/styles/article_section/public/Restaurants/scorpion-bowl_0.jpg

Terminal Velocity

I lie back as Earth spins and falls
listlessly pinned against its crust;
We can’t seem to feel it at all.

Pooled on the floor’s my wine-stained shawl
We whet our mouths and barter trust
I lie back as Earth spins and falls

Voice husked in morning’s slurry drawl
You feed me poems coated in dust
We can’t seem to feel it at all

As midday hangs its firey awl
We trade our tersely tempered gusts
I lie back as Earth spins and falls

Winding starlight into taught balls
I leave the sky bruised black and mussed
We can’t seem to feel it at all

I wash and fold my wine-stained shawl
We trade no more words than we must
I lie back as Earth spins and falls
We can’t seem to feel it at all.


First attempt at a villanelle. Tricky buggers these.

Take care,



Stone after stone tossed

I watch them sink from view
as their ripples fade into the lake’s passive face
and silence returns.

The feel of cotton weighs heavy on my tongue
and my skin is too full of heat.
Spent, I lie down on the water bank
in a bed of upturned soil
and let its damp cool my fever.

My hands are emptied of stones
and my bed is scarred with digging.
Lethargy numbs my limbs.
I have changed nothing.