This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.
My skeleton is in
a large glass jar-
x-rayed for dental remains,
half dead, detained
& vibrating in nerves endings.
I walk through
this night pickled juiced,
caged in.
I know who I am by
the words I type,
the fonts I chose,
the poems that
didn’t nurture
in my brain, aborted.
Behind my shack
a trailer park playground
of juvenile tormentors
shove basketballs
through netted rims.
A skinny redhead
named Randy
urinates then
hammers his basketball
against the side of my
bathroom wall for practice-
shatters glass, the scent
of ice blue Aqua Vela
permeates shaky
shadows on the wall.
But these pesky human
insects are gone my midnight.
The displeasure of
the laundry mat doors
slamming relentless against my
living room wall lock down at 1 am.
Cordless, powered by inebriation
I toss this fried skeleton box
into a cheap twin bed,
wrestle with the quiet
for 3 hours.
April 15th, taxes are due.
Poverty is a pair of scissors
cutting dull across the foreskin.
