Demon

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I am putting my son to sleep

when I see him. I have felt him

but I have never seen him.

He’s over there ensuring

the blackout curtain allows

the street light in. He has 

a pink face, a malevolent 

purple collar. He isn’t

grinning, but he might

in a moment. I can’t unsee 

him now I’ve seen him.

I don’t know what to say,

but to see is no less 

than speech, so my eyes

tell the fucker: my son

is a demon slayer and

your days are numbered;

my son is a demon slayer

and your days are numbered;

my son is a demon slayer,

your days are numbered.

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The Drink
 

How am I supposed

to get this shit down,

I ask no one. You must,

the upside-down unicorn

urges. Where the hell

did you come from, 

I ask. Don’t be a pussy,

the unicorn says.

Why are you talking 

to me like that; you’re

a unicorn, I say. No

bitch, I’m an upside-

down unicorn.

I have to drink all of it,

I ask. Every last drop,

they say. You suck, I say. 

The unicorn is silent. 

How the fuck are you 

so comfortable strung 

up like that, I ask. I don’t

know you well enough

to share that - drink,

asshat, the unicorn says. 

I start chugging. Good, 

the unicorn says, good.

Why am I doing

this, I ask. Because 

you must learn to cherish

what you can hear 

rather than desire

the cacophony beyond

earshot, the unicorn says.

But I’m Raskolnikov, I say.

Look, the unicorn says,

a sun pillar! I look 

and it is unlike anything

I have ever seen - tall,

almost green. I finish the drink.

I want to climb that pillar, I say.

But the tree where 

the unicorn was hung

and the unicorn are gone. 

The sun pillar gone too. 

A whimpering darkness 

gathers. A wind picks up. 

An old wind. Ok, feet, 

get me home.

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I Told You I Didn’t Care

​

once. But I didn’t 

mean it. Walking backwards

turns out to be the same

as walking forwards. So know,

I will never freeze again

under the self-portrait I once

painted. Instead, I’m under moon, 

barely dancing, but, yes,

dancing still to better

listen between the accents

between the notes: crushed turtle

and the after-the-aftermath

wood ducks along the placid reservoir

at dawn. Yes, I did wish myself

this string of lies yes it’s all true.

But then again, here I am 

thinking that Joe’s isn’t open

this late. But look, my love,

the lights.