no god there only science

remember when you lived here
the land was lush
lubricated and fresh
things were wet;
yes, that's the best way to say it.

wet.

fertile, thriving hills
and valleys
what a beautiful landscape,
you said.

remember when you moved.

the trees, fallen
trunks decayed
the carbon stopped long ago.
nothing squirms
occasional weed, broken glass, bones
bleached from the sun
barren.

you tried pouring whisky on it once and made it worse.
drier, even.

i wonder what you do in a desert; maybe pray for rain.

see how that works.

welcome to freshmen orientation. parking that way.

he is dancing, bare feet
(which i hate)
with the joy of a dozen toddlers
a baby's gurgling laugh
he is dancing in the street, on the pavement
in the rain
he looks absolutely ridiculous
and completely carefree
in a rain slicker
with fogged glasses
and red hair
he is dancing in the street
with bare feet
no ego
and no tip jar.

siren calling

my best friend, my constant companion:

look up

published on metazen

it's called crazy horse, this leather, and i show you my clogs. they are brand new, but appear old and worn in; the more you beat them up, the better they look. more things should be made of crazy horse.

how to waste your lunch hour

published on metazen

the latest in a how-to series

i never feel guilty until i get caught

i am spending the night at kim's house whose family are jehovah's witnesses like mine. we are a clique of weird outsiders in high school: no birthday celebrations, no holidays, no unchaperoned dating and no "worldliness" (my dad even gets mad at my mom for reading cosmopolitan magazine because "it literally means 'worldly'"). we are somehow in this world but not of it and i am kind of afraid of dying in armageddon.

how to fill a hole

a hole is a hole, empty, nothing.