preaching to the choir [crackpot]

“he has a lot of crackpot ideas,”
Serena says, nose upturned just so, a tilt
so subtle it could be mistaken for
natural haughtiness and not the snub
that gilds her tone.

(she had tried, for all of four seconds,
to find an alternative way to issue
what she perceives to be a warning;
but she’s aggressively progressive; she
spent all last week knitting pussy hats
for the March for Women, and
it’s not in her nature to sand edges down
to curves, or to bite her lip
on the word “fuck”.) Continue reading

fiddle sticks

the fool’s game is the one we play
on fiddle sticks, pausing to brush
away anything that can be handled
“tomorrow”; it is
to be wholly unconcerned with
your mode of transport, to misuse its utilities
for sheer pleasure, and then to be aghast when
the engine fails;

it is to see the cracked
bow of the bridge
and draw your cart over it,

an old poem, from a time when I wasn’t necessarily taking care of myself. it’s not true that the body is merely transport for the mind. unfinished, circa 2015.