I Write When Shit Sucks And I Think That's Okay

Like Shirley Jackson's Lottery, I Win

my stomach
a planetarium
plunge into
Yellowstone
National Park.
A distant feeling—
15 years distant
or 6 months
as if every
3 years a tragedy
wasn't enough.
Sylvia Plath
died every 10
years. At least
give me that.
shit hits
the fan
and particles
and atoms fly
me to the steps
of the Sunrise
and scratch
lottery tickets
and a restricted
license and
then no license,
but we walked
and we held
hands and he
promised me
the entire
Little
Mermaid
section
if we
happened
to win,
but we
never
win.



Ambrosia In Deddy's Farm Use Vehicle, VA Beach

damn cat wasn't
anything like the
nectar of the gods.
Fucking stupid
cat. she
crawled all over
my back as we
drove her home
to surprise mama.
cat died.
so did mama
and he's
been dying
with her
and
all the
others
for more
than
15 years
now.



Banquo's Ghost In The Empty Seat At Volleyball Games

Addicted to
pills and drugs
or addicted to
death and poetry—
what's really the
difference?
shit.