Monthly Archives: February 2014


And the days are like twins or triplets or
quadruplets or whatever word would mean
365 babies birthed
at the same time, all crying and in need
of a feeding or a changing maybe
or just a nap after a relaxing
day of playing carelessly, attempting
to communicate in their baby speech,
and crawling all over creation waiting
to discover that special something that
tastes fantastic even though you found it
on the floor, something that’s uniquely yours,
something you at least can choose to hoard or
share with your bored and boring day siblings.

After “Dining” At A Chain Restaurant.

Next time,
please check
with the kitchen

and see if
it’s possible
for them to bring

me a brick
of lard and a
salt lick. Because

I can’t
imagine that
would make me feel

any worse than I do now.

Tree House

I had a dream last night, so that’s where this
poem’s going in case you’d like to get
off now. I was reading a book in a
bar with Italian football fans, drinking
a Moretti, trying to finish the
final chapter wherein Female Hero
Whatever Her Dream Name Was needed to
get back to her tree house before the gods
unmade the world, and everywhere she went
the gods were feeling angry, and the gods
were in the woods, and the gods were in the
water, and the gods were shooting footage
for their website as they shattered the world,
and I trembled at the last of pages.


Let’s build ampersandcastles
on a moat that’s made of words
with turrets turning clauses
where the arrowslits are heard

and a drawbridge joining predicates
from subjects made of stone
that punctuate the pillars
of the stories we call “home.”

80s Love Song Cento

Happy Valentine’s Day, oldsters. – L.M.

You say I’m a dreamer.
We’re two of a kind.
Who could heal what’s never
been as one?
I’m counting the steps
to the door of your heart.

The message is perfectly simple;
the meaning is clear:
The wisdom of the fool won’t set you free.
You can feel the cushion
but you can’t have a seat.
How do you say you’re okay
to an answering machine?

We’ll be the Pirate Twins again.
Your lips a magic world.
To look at you, and never speak –
the ghost in you, she don’t fade.

You always said we’d still be friends someday.

Slot Machine

I put in my two cents but never know
what you’re going to spit out in response.
Perhaps I’m not welcome in this strip of
desert, my luck gone dry, hopes no higher
than your neglected brown carpet. Bright lights
and bandit metaphors can’t hold me here
forever; it’s fight night, and I never
miss the undercard, blowing my savings on
the underdog, me, tipping for the free
drinks so necessary to make it out
of here alive. Give me your hand; let’s dance.
Smile for me at least once before I leave
so I’ll have a story to tell. We may
disagree, but I don’t mind if you yell.

The Jordache Look


Nothing ever fit inside of you; a
hairbrush would’ve been asking far too much
of a bag that was a bag in theory
only – oh, it had a strap and unzipped,
but it was understood that conveyance
was secondary. This was appearance.
We had to have at least one. Having more –
well, that was optimal. We could match them
to our outfits (ohmigod, like, so cool).
I had you, just you, only you, powder
blue with one strap held by a safety pin,
because you carried more weight than the rest,
because I couldn’t not stuff you with things.
Because I couldn’t get the hang of “cool.”