Rest yourself
in this room of light.
Your shoes will wait
like eager apostles
for your resurrection.
Capitalism is like alcoholism. It tells you everything is just fine, even when you’re sleeping in a dumpster.
“
Suburbia
Don’t believe the azaleas, they’ll say anything
when in bloom. Or the trees, high on themselves
every spring. This town is no panacea.
No drop dead gorgeous honey that can make
your problems vanish with the toss of her hair.
This place is like any other: our skies cry
just as hard as yours. Our limbs break.
Our whisky burns. And beware our dogs. They bite.
