star man, surfer dude


what now
that there’s a car in space
but a dummy in the front seat

what now
that everyone’s equal
but no one is responsible

what now,
we carry wands called cellphones
to fix our first-world problems

back then,
they thought, let us
climb that, ride that,
build that, break that,
surf that, sail that, fly away,
find new lands, foul them up,
fix them in our image

what now,
modern man

you’ve conceived
and now you’re drawing a blank





Static Cling

Friday night
campus bus

serious slips
into live-it-up

static cling
nylon skirts

Peacock Flare
newbie smudge

Remember the long-gone glimmer of weekends,
whittling ourselves into glamour girls,
un-walk-able shoes, un-dance-able songs,
the disappointment that lives
on the other side of a night out?




getting lost

In my rush, I took the wrong bus.
In my fatigue, I didn’t get off.
I could’ve sworn the scrolling sign said North,
but the bus headed East at 12:21.
Perhaps we see what we want to see, a palindrome.
Perhaps the universe branched, part of me took the straight
and my double took the detour. No one’s alarmed,
we aren’t hijacked, I took the wrong bus…


I’ve been this way before…
three years ago, looking for open mic night
— found my classmate four beers into his teddy-bear-hobo routine,
three years before that, looking for a book signing,
— asked some guy standing outside, “Is this the line for _________?”
His mouth said no, but his eyes said something else.
The pause was full of possibility.

What does it mean that when I get lost, I go East,
that I set out for book-signings and end up at bars,
And the boys that set me straight
look like sad, drunken saviors?