Poems

Their Heaven Has Valet ParkingBehind the gilded gates where angels wear Armani and the wine’s kept cold,Where sanctity’s a stock option, and the offering plate’s engraved with gold,The saints arrive in tailored suits, their prayers are screens,their sins erased—A congregation cleansed by money, not by mercy,not by grace.Pews of leather, marble altars, Bibles sealed in […]

This Is Why We EndedReviewing logs beneath cathedral dust,Where stained-glass light was once a must,Now shuttered feeds, now hashtags bled,No saints left standing, only dread.Once prophets screamed on pulpit stone,Their tongues now clipped to smartphone tone,Where hope collapsed and prophets lied,Faith auctioned off and martyrs died.Justice was a meme reposted,Crusades were corporate, bloodless, ghosted,We wept

The Warehouse District EmptyI drive past loading bays that used to roar,now they yawn like mouths that lost their tasteDock doors shut like eyelids on a corpse,and every painted number feels misplacedA chain-link fence keeps grinning at the street, its grin says keep out,its grin says come and seeI park where forklifts once did their

The Welfare Queen with a Switchblade SmileBeneath the buzzing kitchen light, the night folds in around her hands,A fortress made from food stamp ghosts,where mother-lions make their stand.She guards four mouths with boxed-up pride,her body bruised by men and time,The pantry’s empty, faith is thin,the world outside’s a pantomime.Church ladieswhisper “lazy slut,” with charity on

The Veterans AdministrationHe waited fourteen months for the appointment to come through, the Veterans Administration, the Veterans Administration.

The War of AttritionNot every campaign ends in the decisive afternoon engagement,some of them are settled in a decade of arrangementwhere the side that persists past the point of mutual exhaustiontakes the field by simply being present past the point of question. The war of attrition is the war most men walk away from,it does

The Synthetic DrugIt came in a little bright promise, clean edges, clean talk, clean smile,like trouble learned manners in a lab Synthetic drug, you take the trust, then you take the breath,then you take the us

The Tyrant’s Harvest (Pre-2000 – )Rows march in formation, each corn stalkand soybean drilled by the patent’s silent whip,No wild sunflowers in the margins, no memory of weeds,just a barcode tattooed on every kernel’s lip,Farms that once bore a thousand varieties now bear the stench of sameness,a corporate design,The old man on his porch spits

The Smiling DealerHe grins with the edge of a scalpel,clinical brightness washed in hospital light,Selling quiet removal with Medicaid ink,dispensing dusk in the broadest daylight.Every bottle clicks shutwith the confidence of ritual, the assurance of masked care,His eyes blank as invoices, the comfort scripted,the empathy rare.He inquires about pain in a softened voice,translating misery into

The Stillness Holds MeThere is a weight in this room, pressed between the floorboards and the bones,A fog that never lifts, wrapping the mind in yesterday’s skin—Unmoving, unhurried,a quiet so deep it seems older than stone,Each breath more ritual than need,a slow surrender that lets nothing in.The hours settle into layers,soft and suffocating, blanketing the