low grade

low grade fever,
fists with the pinkies extended,
the smell of urine,
my mother's frown.

the death of outrage was followed
by the demise of celebrity
which was followed by the end of social ruin.
experience never had a chance.

when anger and sorrow go,
there won't be but six of us left
to prop up the remains,
and i'll be bouncing from the back bumper.

rain

in a foreign rain,
another boss in a green duster,
hiding from him my perfect accent.

charles river run #3

over the bridge, wounds deep in the water,
i chase my shadow toward a box of stars,
feeling for the switch before the sun comes up.

you

all them pretty words and nothing for sale --
you thought you was a hammer, but you was only a nail.

grim sunshine

clouds and veins beneath a grim sunshine,
waiting on the wind to part the scabs.
the only thing missing is you.