Hive

a time of traveling in packs
tight knit sweaters
ready to tense up a shoulder
against any naysayer
and draw in closer
the breath of inner circles
was not all without ripples
but a ship was set with certainty
tides of doubt not yet lapping
 at our helm

Futures

If we all knew how to buck the system,
wouldn't we?
And we know how to buck it,
in front of us,
on top of us,
firing up the wire,
flickering so fast cats can't see it.
Blue gate,
blue gate,
not the entrance.

Those who buck,
buck downwards.
The one thing we all know.
Swallowing the kernel down with tuna melts,
or a wedge of Boar's Head.
Chewing a deli lunch, somewhere.

SOUTHGATE

We just have bodies

and move them around

mine feels better with a  little

height-help, a soundtrack,

something fizzy

“that’s some classic bullshit”

hashtag hashtag hashtag

the gliding queen in black sweat shorts

pivoting at angel angles

the bandit hand holders and all

the tumblers – the little bar

with the carpet corridor,

waitress in skates

a daisy skirt

all kinds of medicine

in the breeze

heat poem #2

hands feel cut up and scratched
rough like sandpaper
it's just the winter
the cold outside
the cold office
the cold home
the space heater is on
drying out the air
the humidifier is on
but still not moist enough
not warm enough
slip under the sheets and blankets
toes greeted by crisp cold sheets
hoping the body warms them