selected past writing at 42opus
When door of death
yawns, dress me pink.
Paint me six
feet with stilettos…
Weather descends the stone steps—
sea of hats, hoods, shoulders
headed to the trains. Somehow I remain…
2 December 2004 | poetry
When I say, "I can feel the toxins in my brain," I know I'm wrong. There are no nerves in the brain. But the sentence itself is toxic.
At the turnpike a doe lies stiff
along a median of dry grass. Over her black
nose and eyes, an occasional fly
stirs. Summer is here.
25 September 2008 | poetry