Ferguson

Of course, we were all filled with outrage. Devastation. Of course we were saddened by the news, by the obvious lack of injustice. But at times like these, there's turkey to talk about. Whether to brine or dry rub. The secret to crispy skin and moist meat. The succulence, dripping down our faces as we devour plate after plate (Here's a tip: Get a little of everything the first time, then load up on the good stuff the second. Great Aunt Sue will be so happy you tried her green bean casserole!). These are trying times. How do you save room for dessert when you only really get to eat stuffing once a year? How do you save room for dessert when that skin is dark and crispy but below the juices run down your chin, when the gravy collects in the corners of your lips, when the butter rolls are buttered and the yams glazed with puddling marshmallow, when you bite and stuff and chew and swallow, pack it in, pass out, pants unbuttoned, when the 100 foot balloon is hoisted down the street, the ball is hoisted over the helmet? But of course, yes, this is a travesty, of course, and of course something must be done, yes, so sad, ugh.

Pistol grip

This cloak scene, this arrow hole, this fear of death, this rally speech, this plea for help, this French ennui, this boy here, this cloak scene.

This boy here.

His call for justice, his innocence, his stupidity.
This arrow hole. This boy here.

This cloak scene.
This Pistol grip.
This arrow hole.

i'm sure it all means something haiku

The universe is
human shaped: With teeth and nails
and malignancies.

Hollow Lows

hollow lows
(reflector feet
in headlights)
a hovering
the orange glow

the ticking of the turn
signal
the pendulum
of
the

clock in my first grandma's first living room where we ran at each other with the fluffed couch pillows that were only sat on once a year when we opened presents beneath the Christmas tree that was put away completely in tact.

the ticking of the turn
signal
on
a

moonless night
the hollow
lows of
an acoustic
guitar in
the dark