Poems

The Mouth of the Crescent She’s standing in the puddlewhere the streetlamp bleeds its yellow lightA fracture in the sidewalk and a splinter in the nightHer jaw is pulled back further than the tendons ought to goA porcelain disaster in the lamplight’s dying glowI’m walking through the gravel with a frantic heavy strideWhile she drifts […]

The Music Box Beneath the Floor It started with a sound too soft to name,a melody that moved like it knew my shame.I followed it down past the dresser’s lean,where the dust holds secrets you’d never clean. A loose board cried beneath my knees,and out came air like forgotten pleas.Beneath it sat a box of

The Morning PaperI read the morning paper like a man who has no plan,scanning for the horror and the tragedy and the ban,and every headline is a setup for a bit I cannot use,and every column is a punchline wrapped inside the news. The morning paper used to come on dead wood to the door,now

The Morning Wood SpecialWoke up hard and she was already awakeand aware of the situation,her hand sliding under the coverswithout a single word,stroking slow while pretending still to sleep.I played along, eyes closed, the creep. Then the rhythm builtand she threw the blanket off,climbed aboard—no foreplay, no warm-up,just mounted like I was stored,energy she’d been

The Mirror Keeps Blinking First I stood too long at the glass last night,and the mirror blinked before I did–twice.It wasn’t a trick of the fluorescent haze,wasn’t the meds or the sleep-deprived days. It blinked, and I froze, and it smiled with my teeth,then mouthed something slow I couldn’t quite read.I leaned in closer, breath

The Monkey with the Scalpel He escaped from Lab 13B,came out humming in F-sharp key.Tiny lab coat, eyes too wide,with a scalpel tucked by his monkey side. He learned to slice from magazines,and stitched a nurse into her dreams.Now he roams with a twitch and grin,climbing vents with tools and sin. The monkey with the

The Man Who Traded Screams for Silence He used to scream until the walls would bend,until the pipes shook loose at either end.Every hallway echoed his voice like fire,burning through meds, through straps, through wire. Every nurse knew his name by sound,every shift braced for the fury unbound.He didn’t speak–he howled through teeth,like something caged,

The Map I DrewI drew the map before I walked the territory through,marked the points of resistance, the corridors I’d use,named the gatekeepers by symbol, traced the shortcuts with a line,and the places where a man could tip the scales into his line. They don’t teach you this in school, the cartography of want,how to

The Laugh That Leapt A serrated sound shears through the industrial humA vocalized tremor that makes the heavy muscles come undoneIt erupted from the throat of a man in a grease-stained coatA spasm of madness that took the room by the throatThe air is a vector for the madness of the lungsIt travels in the

The Laughing Door There’s a door in the hall that laughs at me,every time I pass, it wheezes with glee.No knob, no frame, just painted on,but something knocks when the lights are gone. I brought it cookies, I sang a song,it opened once to prove me wrong.Inside? Just mirrors and birthday hats,and a room full