i’d fight lions for you

that’s right

goddamn lions

swarms and billowing legions of tawny

man eating

bone nibbling

flesh tearing 


i’d punch a shark in the nose for you

hold my breath as long as i could

till my face matched the aqua depths

in hue and pressure

and the great fish would charge

and i’d sidestep skillfully like a matador

and sock the bull square on the kissah

and the bubbles will lilt upwards 

and the beast will sink down

perched atop a giraffe’s neck i’d pick apples for you

place them about the savannah floor, wait till night

until the warthogs and the water buffalo came

and i’d fight them too while the moon smoldered in their eyes

i’d squash scorpions with my bare feet for you

hearing the splintering of their exoskeletons

and stiffening my muscles against the poison

i’d fashion a tourniquet with a lifeless rattlesnake 

in the jungle i’d find the panther

and we’d have panther burgers for dinner

in the tundra i’d find the reindeer herds

and one by one i’d chain them to a sleigh

in the mountains i’d find the wooly wild goats

and they’d teach me to live shaggily on boulders

and i’d return from learning the secrets of the wild ones

of breaking and mastering the spirits of the beasts

until I reigned Pan incarnate and puppies followed in my wake

but you would not recognize me bushwhacking through city streets

because i’d be blinded by the chrome and i’d cover my face

and you would walk to the curb swiftly by 

the man in leopard skins clutching a brown bag of wine

who strokes a baby puma with the other hand

until it bites with tiny teeth and scampers away


and, baby

if a big taxi came 

i’d call it with an eagle’s cry

‘care to split it?’



‘say, don’t i know you?’

‘yes, you did, but not anymore, and do-not try to’

‘why not? who are you?’

‘i am a sylvan child with a name you cannot pronounce’

‘my name is Michelle’

‘nice to meet you, Michelle’

‘why can’t I pronounce your name?’

‘can you speak tree?’


‘bison? parakeet? meerkat?’

‘no, only a little bit of French from middle school’

‘France has lovely caves’

‘yes! Chauvet!’

‘you may call me Megaloceros then. that’s what my close friends there call me.’


‘something like that.’

‘you are strange…’

‘so are you’

‘let’s fall in love’


‘all over again’

Up goes Helios and all of a sudden it’s different on the porch yard glowing verdant too true; when up the sun, the sin sizzles. Recline back and take it in, lads. The waning flows till the class bell rings, then it sings and bops of another tempo. But mornings like these we treasure. #hsalexander

6:01pm thank you all for the support this afternoon, and hopefully ill hear from you in the future! Look out for new snippets this summer and something BIG in the fall. Cheers! #HSAlexander

6:00pm “Baby, It’s New Years Eve”
‘I am not gonna fight it this year, honey!’ I shout up the straits, I’m Spock and spanked in the mirror, hello. Down the stairs and I’m gaffooning in the glass, the can, the bubbly. We stumble through the kitchen and out the door come the neighbors and the city burns like a great old Roman candle burning burning burning and we gravitated to the volcarock like mothmatics. 'I am not gonna fight it this year!’ #HSAlexander

5:30 “Cannonball, Hush Up!”
There were nights at Mrs. Brown’s when the heat turned off.
And then in St. Margaret’s Hope, I fled, ran right out of town scared stiff up.
Wandering through docks to get to town.
Thinking yourself walking through ghosts.
Until a child falls and scrapes her knee and cry, “Muummm!” and that would bring you back.

Still, there, felt so lonesome and remote.
A world that moves at plank snail tempo.
Compared to the EC grittle grind. #HSAlexander

5:00pm “From a Beach in Lagos”
At this point in time I feel timeless, like a character from my own imagination’s novel, damp with the Atlantic, eagerness, and zeal, and salt water drips on the page from my hair. The scene in front of me is the most beautiful, most foreign, and most enticing. Coarse tan sand with bits of small rock, seashells, and bottle caps swimming in the grains. Atop the cliffs, accessible by a pair of stone steps, is a beach bar where we will drink cold Sagres later. The sun is the right kind of warm, comforting like a large bed but more like the hot pink insides of a fresh grilled tenderloin. Either way, in it my skin prickles as my leg hairs dry and a film of salt develops, coating me in the atmosphere of the afternoon. #HSAlexander

4:30pm “Trimmings”
Each morning I rise,
I see a trace more rib.
Don’t worry,
This is the desired result.
Sharp, but mentally dulled
Hunger pangs
Bite like fangs
But I ignore them.
The stomach moans
Come back
Like boomerangs.

A bit more rib.
A bit less flesh.
But my chest
Keeps its breadth.

Toned and moaning,
My body tramps the day,
Walking most places,
Occasionally jogging
In jeans
When I find walking
Boring, tedious, slow.

I need my mornings coffee. #HSAlexander

4:00pm “The Blue Tarp and the English Chatter”
If you turn right instead of going over the last bridge to Walton (pronounced “Wahhton”), and continue down the verdant path with two auburn dirt tracks equidistant from one another due to a car’s width, you will see peeking through the scraggly trees and riverside overgrowth a wearied blue tarp, and you might hear laughter, as I did, on the last day of May, and if you continue down the path, you’ll hear country English grumblings and to your left will be a clearing of numerous smooth river rocks and you will see a large rock amongst tree rocks like altars a-topped with painted stones and jawbones and that large rock, in black thick pen, will read, “Welcome to Almost Heaven, eh!!” #HSAlexander

3:30pm “Find a City”
Find yourself a city to live in.
Anywhere with tall towers.
A pub on corners and main streets.
Some days of mad cold rain but on most days, light —in some form, at least.

The light that morning shone clean off the stone, up the windowpanes and down the metal gutters, the shinglettes, and the flower boxes out into the street where they held hands and walked swiftly up the hill and only looked up at the castle while the buses thundered by. The rest of the market thronged and the castle knew it was handsome and like a tragedy, he did as well. That’s why he had grown that moose pube of a beard. But she met him moose pubed at first.

So what was he really doing?
But yawping his moose horn’s bellow? #HSAlexander

3:00pm “The Alexander Doorbell”
Alexander. You could have heard it swooned, belted, snarled, cheered, whimpered, whispered, shouted over mountain tops which had refused limits and sought to punch moon in the eye, heard all the name in any time of life on this planet known Earth and it would still inspire awe.

When the Last Door Shut

H.S. Alexander


i put the wet pot

filled with grey water

on the burner

and as the coil reddened 

and the wheezing hiss

sang about my insides

i started washing dishes

because i have no more nails to bite off

and it was rhythmic

the bubbling boil

but i was covered 

in dirty water

once i’d finished

i grabbed an old mug

and threw in a tea-bag 

and poured the boil

and discovered two tea-bags

so i had to take one out

i waited in the kitchen

amidst the boiling and the hissing

and stared with all fiber at the fogging windows

where an elephant had formed in the vapor

no, really, i mean it

an elephant in the vapor

uplifted head

sweet trunks

big African ears

which I remembered

because you taught me the difference