Monday, February 24, 2014

Dear Universe



cheers for all
the fucking holes

there’s not much left
for you to stab





--Rob Plath

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Acrid Homes



Drips into
metal pans
leaving
chemical
traces
from
the
hard-swollen
rain.


The smell
never
fully scrubbed
away.



The staunch memories
of flophouse
nights
hit me
like
flashbacks



of drugs I’ve never
done.



And I wonder if
the 9-5 conformity
was ever worth
the sacrifice
of always
having
a cheap
drink
and a free
cuddle
from some
punk laid
out on
a love-stained
floor.



This contributive camaraderie
never as tight
as the
warm embrace
of a one-shoed
man
wearing a
Dorothy dress
and dreaming
only
of
the next day.



The paint always
peels, bubbles away from
the wall



Full
of roof-water
or
mold
or

pain.



--Jessica Gleason