Cupid texted

I’m all out of arrows

Cupid texted.

Thank God for that, I reply.

But you don’t believe in God.

Sometimes, my friend.

Sometimes,

I do.

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The Craft

Tears well
followed by
a deep breath,
sadness
is a fine art,
and I’m still
after all these years
developing the craft.

Picking Daisies

I know Matt Whitaker
I don’t know Matt Whitaker

Except, here’s the thing.

We’re not picking daisies
Mr. President
you’re running the country
Mr. President
and you don’t even know who you know?
Mr. President

America is not one of your companies.
America is not your next big deal.
America is not another bankruptcy for you to cash in on.

Mr. President
we’re not picking daisies,
but if we were
she’d love you not.

Before Long Island

I
believed
in
myself
once.

A
long
time
ago.

Perhaps
too
much.

Perhaps
not

enough.

Like
I
believed
in
you.

A
long
time
ago.

Perhaps
too
little.

Perhaps
too

much.

While
your
many
faces
spoke.

Such
awful
beauty
spewed.

All
that
time.

I
heard

nothing.

Believe
it
or
not,
I

really
believed
in
everyone.

Spitting
tea
leaves.

Before
Long

Island.