Category: surreal

Cold, Dark, and Handsome

This is an older poem which I may or may not have posted (if I did, it was to my now-defunct site). In any case, I thought of it this morning, so here it is:

Cold, Dark, and Handsome

I like my men cold, dark, and handsome, you say,
and I tell you I have the cold and dark parts
down pat, but I struggle with the handsome bit.

You shrug and let me in anyway, most likely
figuring I’ll get better-looking the more you
drink, but that isn’t going to happen, my dear.

You’ll have to settle, I’m afraid, which I know
makes you cringe, but there’s nothing to be done.
Your core temperature plummets as I wrap

my arms around you and the light bleeds away.
Someone is crying–it could be either one of us.
Before your eyes close, you whisper, You’re not so bad.

Final Moments

Final Moments

When at long last, I draw my last breath
and the crowd of people who don’t care–
who have never cared and will never care,
fighting, arguing people, marching idiots,
resounding gongs and clanging symbols
that fill the dark canyon in which I find
myself nightly, bereft of reason but hoping…
at that time, I hope to master myself.



You break so easily, you tell me
as you swing the hammer toward
my face, and I meet it without
flinching, expecting the blow,
craving it, the slow explosion of
pain across my broken cheeks,
the sharp exhale of my shattered
breath as it escapes my body and I fall
into darkness so deep that not even
you, with your keen and terrible
eyesight, can follow and find me.




He replicated himself one dark
and dismal day when the rain
wouldn’t stop and the people
who lived near him–the ones he
never spoke to but watched from
the corner of his eye–stayed inside
and watched static on their broken
televisions and listened to atonal
screaming from men and women
who lived and died by the radio dial.

What mischief shall we undertake?
he asked his duplicate, who thought
long and hard before deciding to steal
everyone’s light bulbs so they would
swim in darkness and cry out for comfort,
but no one would come to comfort them,
not even their erstwhile mothers who lived
in a land where light bulbs were plenteous
and never stolen…not even they would come



When you abandoned me,
you forgot to make sure I was dead.
Over the course of black days
and blacker nights, I clawed my way up.
Now I sit in the red twilight, trying
to remember your face, but all I hear
is the your voice echoing across the void.
I will use that sound to hunt you.

The Death Munchies?

Who knows? I came across this yesterday when I was looking for another story draft to finish. It made me laugh.

“I’ve got the death munchies,” I said to an abandoned sea shell.

The world turned and turned for no good reason other than it had always turned and didn’t see any point in changing things.

There was a girl who painted herself into a corner and she came to love it.

A porpoise solved my grandmother’s crossword puzzle, the one she started during Reconstruction and never gave up on, even after she died.

There was a pig in a thistle. It was embarrassed.

“Did anyone hear me say I have the death munchies?” I asked.

a man with the death munchies

Survivor’s Guilt

Pain seeks its own level,
you tell me as we look out

over the ruined city, eerily
beautiful in the moonlight.

I can hear the screaming
from here, or so I imagine.

You hold my face in your hands,
and I feel your breath as you

whisper, You did not cause this.
Far below, in the rubble, a hand

moves once and then stills forever.

My Pretty Girl

My Pretty Girl

My pretty girl, don’t you see the rain-soaked gully?
It’s the only landmark you need when navigating
this still-born world, desperately short of pearls
but overflowing with worthless rocks and stones.
I am underground, but you can find me if you listen.
Forget the blurry sky and your hasty words—
we can commune with shadows and blind eyes
and the endless rows of stones that drop from my
impossible mouth, an unlikely but necessary language.