the day begins

with rockets.


streaks of smoke

and fire lance

the sky.

rockets and ufos

on every channel.

internet rumors.

“we’re being invaded!”

“it’s the military!”

reporters say,

“no word yet on

where these ships

came from, who

is on them, or

where they’re headed.”

another crop of rockets

lift off and fire towards space.

“it does appear

that they’re all leaving

earth’s atmosphere.”

sweat beads on

the brows of the viewers.

someone says,

“they’re leaving.”

the reporter,

“we’re still waiting

for a statement from

the white house.

we’re working

to determine the

president’s whereabouts.”

“that reporter still don’t

wear a mask,”

says a viewer from

behind a mask.

“they’re leaving.”

“let ’em go.”

“i’m fine that they going,

i just don’t like

how they left the place.”

the rockets

stop leaving.

everyone wears their masks

and watch

to see what

will happen next.


the river

washing my tin pot

in the flowing water,

i clanged the pot against

a stone in the bed.


the ‘ba-oyng’

sound echoed over the

running river, bouncing

off the rock face the river

had, across many years,

left exposed.


i watched the sound to the

wall, then looked at my pot

still cutting and filling with

river current.


using a small rock,

i scraped the bits and ring

of oatmeal still stuck to metal pot.


the river water was cold.

touching the water made my

hands red hot.


the water felt old,

the rocks felt old,

the cold felt old,

my pot felt old.


i saw my breath and watched it

cut on naked branches from the bank.


had i been here,

done this, before?

poem at lunchtime

dinnerbell rings into the

vacuum of hunger-stricken stomachs

and the growl of famine bellies

roar over the moans of pain and

the wails for just a bite of anything.

canned coca-cola ads and mcdonalds lovin’ it

and exxon cares marketing strategy 

comes through the pipes to not fill empty

glasses while capital one what’s in 

your wallet is slathered on recycled cardboard bread

with hellman’s mayonaise packets distributed

by a rep with love-handles.

the ragged bones masses with hands

like pitchforks stab at the ground

where Johnny Mayo Packet sows his

seeds in emerging markets, then

tear open the foil packet

and squirt the white goop down their

parched and barren throats.

hunger, hunger, hunger, hunger lives

in the fences they live within.

no one has seen an apple or banana 

for years. the bread rises like slime

using the flour they’ve been given.

sunlight hides behind green-grey

clouds that choke all the ground 

and all the water.