Poetry

The drug dealer is a boy, a child,
someone who would be otherwise occupied with
lacrosse and SAT-prep back in my safe suburban bubble.
He brings me to a series of row houses,
heartrendingly sparse trees lining a gravel alley;
he leads me further into the darkness.

Give me liquor, red wine, and
join me in my stargazing.
Who wants to get lost and
who wants to be found?
I renounce this nonsense.

The 69 year old Supreme Court justice had an affair with his 24 year old law clerk. The same law clerk who a year earlier had seduced a 15 year old boy at a mock trial competition where she was a team leader.

But why wait –let’s do it now –break something we can build on.
Maybe we won’t have to break anything after all.
Maybe if we leave it whole and our
organs don’t fail and we love one another 
maybe we can fill up on junk and forget to feel alone. 

What did he do
that little boy
when he Resisted
the Occupation,
for that was the charge
against him.

all tough,
high-fiving,
talking about bitches
and how they are going to
tear Bourbon Street up dawg!

I know I will not commit suicide
because the world all wants me to die and
I hate the world more than it could
ever make me suffer

A gentle snow flurry
covers footprints on a Sunday
open-air market
in the shadow of the church.
 
The sirens subside.

Pornographers’ rights take precedence over parents giving. malevolent have free rein to prey on our children. Walls keep God away from schools, but can’t lock up pushers, thieves and murderers

Jesus Christ said to love them
back, but oh, Messiah, it’s hard.
Let the waves of mirth break 
upon your breast; the ground will 
quake—and swallow