Poetry

A Poem of Severe Import

I drank a beer first thing yesterday morning because the night was dark and full of terrors and I’m still frightened and, frankly, upset...

I suppose you think I’m talking about the President of the United States of America, but I’m not. Because this feels more important than...

Because so I cry sometimes for no reason at all other than that when I had a reason to I felt as if I couldn't.

I first read you when I was wayward and lost, wanting to find the straightest line back to the path I’d started on. But you told me to...

You told me your cat died today and that you were afraid to go inside because then her absence would greet you the way she used to,...

A question I’m forced to face on a daily basis is why the mirror loves to pull pranks and make me cranky and mangy and, frankly,...

Why is it, Mr. Bukowski— if I may refer to you in formal terms— that every time I read your poetry I feel like… well… your poetry? Small...

I put my socks on first and then I eat a peach. I do that because I like how it sounds, eating a peach with, in only socks. The socks...

When I asked my doctor if it were terminal, he said, “not the eczema, but the psychosis ain’t going nowhere.” And then I punched the air...

I’m older now, exactly eight seconds older than before I began this poem. And in the time it took to begin and reach here, I’m now both...