the black rose of poverty smells
like the money you wanna ask your parents for
old leftover refrigerated pizza
the leather of a wallet there’s no point in carrying
gasoline you don’t have to get to a doctor
you can’t afford
and a big “why”
turning from the clicking ceiling fan
you just may find yourself swinging from
Most Popular
New Muses for a Posthuman Age
Late last year I wrote a 10 sonnet sequence entitled New Muses for a Posthuman Age, the idea being to update the goddesses and answer...
