Most recently published stories in Poets.
Days of Our Lives
Walk me away til I wander back through again wishing i'd've listened is wasted on me. Taste it on me. Like it's something you've never done.
On the Run
“Run for Gawd sake Run!” laughing as they flee Running from the Copper’s or no longer to be free Petty crimes and petty dreams of how to make it rich
Tangible in a slow rhythm, a hyper frequency reaches even the deaf. What is this consuming me through even the toughest of times? When even despair has fallen away to leave this essence alone with me. Can this even exist or is it yet another construct of my mind? Who can tell me? Questions lead to more questions, endlessly manifesting and falling away. Should I rely on my knowledge that's formed through experience or can I seek another route?
Something will always be missing inside of me, the same place that tells me there's always something better to see. I need to gain anything
twenty-five years ago when I was a kid you scared me to death I thought you were a witch dyed jet black hair pale white skin
Deal with the Devil
I saw the Devil and the Lord talking as if they were best of friends The Devil said to the Mighty one “Let’s bring this to an end“
I am, without doubt, a rare breed My soul deviated when he shot his seed Twisted, depraved, and deranged I should've been
Our beloved, Johnny
We tried so hard to make you realize your greatness, but the desire for a bag of poison, that most certainly guaranteed
Not Growing Up with Fireflies
Not growing up with fireflies I knew no wonder (NO wonder)(truly no wonder, like some Roman scarred by bloodlust wavingsome bread/circus-tendered hand at some poor soulcondemned to die) which sounds dramatic–save for whenI hit one on a highway choked with tiger lilies,running through the town of Van Leer, Tennessee.I stared, dumbfounded, at the incandescent splatter(like some Roman, with one bourgeois ear to Pauland his Good News that even if you lacked religionyou had nature from the start to prove to you that God existed) and the wipers spread it thin–it faded as the skypaled bloodless into dawn, and I was struck (was STRUCK)(truly was struck, as though some parable had resonatedthrough my thick and Gentile mind) with its climactic disappearance,matching stroke for stroke the spangled cloudless blackwith neon lime, and then the aquamarine with a subtle sea-foam,and then the fading ochre-denim with a fading greenish-grey.Then, in light, of course, a spittle-seeming smear. I trustthe sunshine always to decry the mystery.It does not touch the memory that, clinging, now,invites me to hold forth (like some poor Romansinging candidly his praises to a deaf and dying god)(like some dead god, who, hearing him, must then exterminate humanityto make him see the error of his ways.)
Perceptions of Truth
What’s evil? What is good? What’s right, and what’s wrong? Who decided? Who said it so? Did you? Did you say so?
If I Was a Painter
If I was a painter I would paint my memory Illuminate the canvas Different hues of you and me I'd paint the sky above us
The Cougar & The Silver Fox
In leopard print skirt and tight checked shirt The pair would eye each other across the room As pints went down and shapes were pulled