Four to Twelve-Thirty

Hands towards box, hands towards brown
tape machine, hands towards wrapping
paper, hands towards tissue paper, hands
towards blue storage bin, cosmetic to box,
lotions to box, brushes to box, soaps to
box, hands towards wrapping paper,
hands towards brown tape machine, from
carton to carton. The life of a warehouse
worker, from one hour to the next. Estée
Lauder, Keystone branch. 16.25 an hour.
Some of the things modern poets do to
pay for submission, and other things.


I admire God for being an artist,
for programming life and giving it
freedom, freedom to rise and stall
like waves, freedom to think and act
within its interest, and freedom to always
be less intelligent and gifted than God.
Darling, I admire God for sparking Hell.

Nate and Myrna

In the beginning of every story, I am
broken, scarred in an infinite different
ways, and you, you are wise and innocent,
a colorful Goddess, and so we find each
other with kindness, understanding,
and friendship, traits that are uniquely
ours, and rare in humans. And for a while,
we are happy, naive and young, and so
we both make plans for our tomorrow…
in yours, I am your sweet lover and
philosophical soul, thee one, the guy who
sees, loves and appreciates every aspect
of you…in mine, you are my wife, the
mother of my unborn children, the one
who loves us more than herself. And for
a while, it is true. Sweet and true. But
darling, I am scarred, scarred in an infinite
different ways…and you, you are a myth.
And so our stories ends like most myths do.
I mess up, we break up, you stop talking
to me, we grow up, and I spend the rest of
my life trying to win you back and be the
man that your sweet lover could never
truly be for you.