The Pet Stapler

I am the cubicle in the nighttime.

I am the tired desk chair resting after work.

I am the typewriter never used,

since email made its debut.

This is the useless anthem,

so inadequate for the needs of the moment.

But nevertheless,

it has purpose in the heart of the young,

who feel they are never enough.

They with their tired feet

and broken backs. Because we are

the labor for the elite and

the future of a culture of apathy.

I am no more cared for than the next

poor bastard.

The stapler cries sharp tears

across the floor at night.

They bounce noiselessly off of the ground,

wishing to prick the feet of passersby

through patent leather shoes.

I am the staple.

I am the staple.

I am the stapled page,

bound together permanently,

only to be ripped and torn,

sheet from sheet,

then restapled again and again

as people need.

I am the lonely fluorescent light

of the office building, flickering in

and out of consciousness. I am

the singular bulb’s prayer for continuity.

I am the janitor,

cleaning the surfaces of the uncaring.

I am the hand at the switch,

Forgetting about the things at work.

the bride in black

The bride in black

has her face turned toward the ground,

hoping no one will notice her

ugly white scar.

“That’s what a veil is for,” they told her.

She is whispering her prayer at the altar

with no one to hear her call. She could

scream but there would be no one to hear.

Her flower droops from ill use, until

the petals fall to the floor with less weight than her.

Food how we forget thee in front of the crowd

before our wedding day.

Their silence is an amphitheater of noise and abandon.

There are two worlds

and not one takes precedence over the other,

but the one is much less visible. Her hands tremble,

so that the flowers are only stems,

and the stems rattle dead in the frigid air

of her wedding chapel. Naked, she would blend

into the white of the rest of the church,

but that scar shines,

fluorescent with the fusion of the brightest

star in the sky, forever frozen in the retinas

of those gathered, that aren’t quite there.

This is the altar of disappointment,

or at least where it is built. In the hearts

of those that stand at an altar and wait

for something that may never come.

O bride in black, we would do what we could but

it would never be enough, and for that the world mourns.

Her dress is still black. Her hair is still black. Her scar

is still white as the sun.

And the stained glass shines red with the drop of crimson

in the bottom of the tub. It tastes like –

Yes honey, yes they did.

This Ocean Is Not Calm

I lost my voice to the scream of a bullet,

tearing away my own jaw to change

the world. It will continue on without a thought

until one day it is enough.

We walk with fists in the air for freedom

and a chance to wake the beast

at the bottom of the sea.

With the rise and fall of the waves,

the leviathan rises.

Something must give

and crush the enemy,

crush the enemy forever.

The Glass Menagerie

alabaster skin pressed against the glass

flat and conforming

to the thin transparent cube

she and they pushed

with glimmering glow

of sickly hue

as if to make it through

there are bodies in there

our very own menagerie

arms and legs protruding from nowhere

stop

she says stop

enough is enough

stop

back to factories for glass making

a little surprise inside

emaciated limbs like sickly trees

but the birch is pale

alive and well

with strength in the inner -

stop

listen, please the trees

form their impenetrable grove

so unceremonious

so uncultivated

but still invariably calculated

it's written down on a white blank sheet-

stop

the cube, a mish-mashed press

an orgy of white calculus

slowly sinking into the earth

unearthed when un-saviors arrive

placed on display for the public to see

many come and stare-

stop

at the bodies piled in glass.