I Wish Mondays were Dead

I want to pass on from this daily coil
to the heavens
where Netflix never asks “if I’m still watching,”
because we both know I am
and I can access my digital wares
without worry of disconnection.
We’ll one day pass from this banality
where I am only concerned with the bottom line
and only the most basic availability
are all I can offer and all that is offered to me.
I’m exhausted, honestly, from striving to achieve the sub-par.
I’m ready for the next life
of comforter pillows and oversized pizza boxes.
There, by my tomb, we can heat up hot pockets and hope for the best.


There was always worry in his eyes
it’s what drew me to him
I can relate with not knowing
the kind of shit this world can bring
but he took it in like everything else
it wasn’t regal, it wasn’t proud
but it was his, and that’s all that mattered.

We all agreed he looked ridiculous in that dress
I think that’s why you kept it on
and we all snickered when you found another kitten
but we never questioned your love
why would we?
He wore a dress for god sakes
they all did.
I’m not a monster, I’m not a psychopath.
Cats in dresses are hilarious.

Though his look seemed scornful
He was pleasant to his kind
Though he was unsuccessful in love
and maybe his aim was off
he managed to pass something else along
a smile, a disjointed chuckle;
for a moment we forgot where we were
our eyes lingered on a puff of white fluff
who wore a jersey
and sometimes a dress

The published are professors
scouring tomes of linguistic graves
inferring wisdom through echelons of riposte;
the sullied are dreamers
ripping through zines, desecrating reason
consuming anything, one-hundred-and-forty
characters at a time.
the professor's words
linger and sweep, dangling
through truth and sublime lyric.
the dreamer is absorbed by the raw
demanding rainy days
and the learn'd
serve banquets
with battered feet and tattered robes
going down long sapphire roads.
On my way I come to realize
both ignore the tolls.


The shark lives in a boorish place,
perfect for something so visceral.
Finning about its medium with tedious attention and wanton thoughts
It is ever fretful in the bloodied spume
Unsure if the cohort will take the wrong idea, or worse.
Yet it endures, a machine of dire and vagabond tendencies.
It is in the unfathomable wandering that it finds meaning,
hidden in vibrant colors of the coral,
Of which, the beast displays stunning ignorance.

the roof

Feet danglin’ off the bellicose roof
where two dogs glisten with blood and saliva.
In the back, the man with a checklist looks down the line.
He appraises, does not solicit, he’s involved yet not illicit.
The bodyguard shows me his musket and says
“This here’s an old thing. Sturdy. See the smoothbore?”
He fired it straight into those dogs.
The boom was more disturbing
but they kept on snarling at each other,
unsure where the blood came from,
as it trickled into the rain pipe.


Can you remember,
on our filmy sun days
how the forty-second street motor squirmed,
and you laughed about how we could never
be saviors on such grand railways?
When Mario Moreno died,
a giant bright flag
echoed his essence on me.
With such a fury that cannon blew,
and we understood where he was headed.
A cigarette yawned
where we left that ill-faithed rag,
the sullied organ rattling a sore throat
through that long, long opus.
and that sweet heaven
of sin and lustful valor,
where a tiny soul pounded
in a Christmas card you sent,
that reminisced
and told
a vivid howl
about a steelyard.