Poetry

When famine finds a feast beyond
the depth of fear’s furrowed brow,
I cede and bleed into this font
to slake your thirst that only grows.

In the silence after destruction,
death does not vanish,
just as the river of immortality
doesn't water anybody;
we remain between light and dark.

and venture capitalism , a medulla oblongata rhyming 
each mouth and eye to the arrogant grasping of hands , is 
anything but natural . here , the crush of one thing 
onto the other . a totalitarian wind blowing from the east

No - not the goddess of beauty,
Venus from Gillette, 
Venus from Shocking Blue,
Venus flattened into a jingle:
“I’m your Venus, I’m the fire at your desire.”

Despite this midlife mustache,
and this momentary smirk,
and this signature laugh,
and these less-than-perfect teeth
which will never have the gleam of
Broadway or the shine of Hollywood

Tell the refugee on the bench your father taught you to count
by birds on the wires. Numbers used to mean
who came home; now they mean which beds remain.
He teaches me his word for rain: three vowels, one bruise.