OBITUARY
The empty bottle gives nil.
Once it had purpose
for the thirsty or would-be
inebriant, connoisseur or
addict. But nothing is more useless
than this vessel when spent,
no damn good anymore
it remains
where put, rarely
placed for a reason, unless
filled with colored sand
or sour
and shelved as trophied
vacancy.
Better to shatter,
anarchic mirror-ball
giving up
its ghost
all sparkling in a hail of sun:
a last gasp
of promise.
Everyone Wants a Hero But I'm More Like the Walking Dead
Don't stop writing
Don't you ever stop
she told me
But here I am
staring at the wall
taking my eyes away
from the white cinder blocks
long enough to take aim at the rats
that run back and forth across the stained carpet
I shoot and miss
and like the poem, the rat gets away
I turn back to the walls
and get startled by a bug
a small brown bug
defying the fading painted walls
of their pure color
I take aim and flick him upwards
chuckling as I wait for his descent
He was stuck in a web
a tiny spider's web
and there he hangs
just a poem on the
tip of my tongue
