Inertia in a Few Stages

Porous, tracing paper set on the heart we tip

We’ll likely pass over bridges in the morning

Trussed-over bedroom eyes, wet, and oh so

fucking boring, a


Prize in hand, the traffic at standstill

Dark, blooded roots in the hands of giants

A lover’s mouth fastened just below the

surface—a boring fuck




Find a few mistakes in the words, so he writes them again

In better constants, the tragedy marks a wipe on the screen

Out from under dirty fingernails and padded white feet

The need far outweighs the reasons he gave

To fend off the bleeding, knuckle-toed sin of love,

of it all, so, so—oh so

fucking boring—when you get right down to it


It’s the corrections job I have at the end of the road

It waits for me every night while I sleep through the day

The stench of inmate breath in the cutoff office I call home,

make coffee, drink spit—the things I can’t write away




Nurse my broke fingers, warped bones into claw

Pried along, becoming new words, becoming


Drunken poems all over my hands and face,

left to dry, after time—picked at like napkins at a bar.



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