Crack this old skin open

and let the new,

shiny and iridescent,

glimmer hope

and baby soft layer

expose to the light of day.


Grey and ways of hopeless

now gone,

grave deep and waterous.

It’s a tough slog these days,

no matter whose gains you covet.

Can’t even climb into bed

without a little Ambien.



How does this birth the Reaper?

Catatonic binge eater,

crap factory,

totally engaged by the entity.

Never distressed the skin

enough to make it weathered,

no patina,

not a mark.

Excellent used condition.


Brace for the fallout.

Said a thing,

ripped papers,

slung words

like a typewriter.


in the shimmering mirage

of cold fact dogging.


I never wrote a love song.

I just hoped that my next death

would be better

than the last one

and I could splay my skin open

and take in the Sun.


Nothing good grows here.

The season is too short,

but there is no end

to the dirt farms

and the fact checkers

and the rules lawyers.


These days everyone’s a critic,

or an architect.

No one lays claim

to their snakehood.



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