{god is in the comma}

I suppose I'd be more productive if I didn't obsess over each little poem so much. but then who would I be.

lies about absence

my gods, I love a lost cause.
light from downed wires, kisses
between the elderly. tissue
on a hemorrhage, flagging a cab
at dawn on a wet Thursday

bring it on. mouth full of dead moths,
watch me grin. a cheshire on nitrous.
the lover looks like a brother
or courier, really
it’s neither here nor there

the jukebox song’s enough
to drive you off the edge
of the bar, piano, pianissimo,
a minor key but the band’s tuning
ruins the mood so suicide
is out of the question

again. your glass all but empty
the percussionist looks bored
or merely in love. hard to tell
with bluegrass, if that’s what this is.
don’t call. fruit flies orbit in for a sip.