I'm not tired

Tip back a glass

with ice cubes

my dear

because open red eyes

have seen two moon and stars

and again the white glow creeps


and lead eye lids tremble

the hero in the bed time book

downstairs in a drafty basement room

the radio

the radio that stays alive

and charges battery acid blood

to pump a gray heart

inflate the flesh



to the size of a giant

to tango with Mrs. Liberty statue

a radio to console playground knees

a grave eating radio

In the corner of the boxing ring

for three suns

to send tired feet walking down empty streets

without maps

or street signs

but lamp posts that hold up moons

when no flesh covered bone


in or out

of my bed

Poison or Partner?

A pen can be quite posinous to the mind, eyes, and ears. Instruments of the pens plot. Not seeing to take in or listening to music to enjoy it. The pen uses everything. Saves nothing. And, oh boy, the times the pens in hand, but the paper is clear for days on end. Its not the pen who feels the pain, but the hand. The hand will put down the pen and take up a drink in hopes of re-picking up the pen. “That’s not right,” the mind will think, “its my hand but really it’s at the pens mercy.” YOU SILLY BITCH the pen scratches on a notepad, aware the mind is reading. The mind scofs at the insult. The pen continues writing. WE CAN WORK TOGETHER, I AM NO ENEMY. Confusion. “Poison or partner?” the mind wonders. BOTH the pen writes.