The Hours

Can’t even sustain myself with the hours
I work to make myself; a waterfall of dollars
and dreams splashing off wet stone. I hold no

heart hostage but my own; the heart holds me
hostage through beating, my breathing
a slow decay. In aging I prove nothing

to the universe except that I exist;
through the office, I prove I do not.
Despite the hours, the blood and bone

monuments I erect, then forget–
the steady draining of days worth
not enough to get me by.

 

(originally published in Sheila-Na-Gig Online, Spring 2018)

Workday

pure coffee pleasure
drinking work travels
camping parties get-
togethers at work when
the printer is jammed i
move the tray until the
deadlines variegating
ironic pleasures and
cogs who do not turn
sleep when moving
uninterrupted clear
jars have a shine that
lights carburetor engines
grasping understated harmonies
in Kevlar mugs in which
infested apples seek light
order menially crisscrossing
borders of yellow shades
mashing front-up wonderful
mistakes marketing harmonica-
maudlin skaters receipt
upon leaves and green
greens until the market
crashes and crashes and seventeen
times i heard Pop-Secret popcorn
pop in the breakroom microwave

 

(originally published in Chronopolis, No. 3 – October 31, 2014)