Hometown, Ghost Town


At the business lunch, I went to

We ate sushi off a corpse; it kept it colder

Picked rice from my teeth with a sharpened femur

Send the rice to Africa but don’t send this poem

Home to meet your mother where your father could find it

Say, I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed


You can look at him through a kaleidoscope

As dandruff, brush him off

Long middle-finger is an inherited trait

And some writing, burns best

At the bottom of steel trash cans

In alleys during Pittsburgh winters


Published at Terror House Magazine