Phone Call

Sort of the same
As when
A phone call, or it
Could honestly
A message, instantly
Changes what
You believed were
A general trend;
But gnawing,
Is the sense
You should now prepare
For a morning
Of self-flagellation.

The Slice

Let’s hope
That now isn’t
The tomorrow
I’d planned for,
Or else—and
You’ll help me,
Won’t you?—we’ll
Hone a great giant cleaver
And flail
My outward extremities,
Like salted strips
An Iberian
Ham; every slice
Will signify
A year silently correct,
And therefore

Goodnight or Goodbye

What I actually had said
Was that I
Believed your words
Had meant goodnight
To us,
A type of faith
I can understand
You would construe
As somewhat
      With an attitude
This side of
Shrinking, like the fake pride
Not to care
About losing
A game
You once were good at.
      I just wanted
To remember
This advice, you see,
Once told
To wish you
A good night’s sleep
You say goodbye.


Run if you have to,
I would.
Run farther
Than that garden passage we fucked in,
Overhung by those pretty
Super luscious
Trees and plants
I don’t know the name of;
Other than, obviously,
The roses.
Run forever from me
And don’t you ever
Remember that we
Laughed and kissed
Even during
Post-coital depression—
And don’t you dare
Remember your
Favorite moment of me
Glassless exiting
My apartment building
To retrieve
A casual, forgotten pink cap.
Run like your memory of me
Is a string you hold
Fastened to my tooth.
Run away
And be my etched in memory;
For I can’t forget, or run.

Talk to Yourself

Self-imposed solitude
Means a wish
To have no stake
In the world
You’ve chosen
To settle in. It
Means talking to
On the sidewalk
While people who
Snicker at that fact
Means nothing
To you;
It is freedom,
A suffocating cage.