Because not every day was meant for bitterness

I bought a unicorn. Swapped
it for my work-a-day black
espresso taken with a daily dose
of state-of-the-world and self-disgust.
All sweet-tart pink
powder & blue syrup, topped
with a spiral of pure white cream;
you needn’t tell me no one needs that crap,
the processed sugar & color, short-
chained fats, the plastic cup;
I savored every last drop, followed it up
at the Salvation Army
with a pair of crocheted pants
and a sleeveless fringed tank
2 sizes too large that reads:
love the little things.

capture no.2

Don’t hide
behind the language,

hesays,
& means it:

sculpt your words
into the grumble

of trains
that rail in

sympathetic
overdrive

beside a silentrunning
river, gray

Decemberdepths
like black

ink
on a wet page

& verses punc-
tuated

with the mourning
warningwhistle

as she slows
on the outskirts

of where yesterday
meets tomorrow.

That crossroads
is all there is.

ember & ash

now the city’s once-poets,
rock-chained and rail-thin,
spout river rust
and rain-washed chalk
plans for overtight epics,
kick
back with
dinnertime gigs
and dimestore glories picking the dead
bits off mediocrity-ridden skin,
become suburban and
enamored
of cheap tequila
Tuesdays that can’t quite erase
the foregone diagnosis
of cancer where
it
hurts the
most. hearthfire
wasn’t sacred
before it existed;
where is your
Prometheus
now?