Feed the Piranhas

Curate This Philly has published my poem, “Feed the Piranhas.” The piece delves into the mind of a caricature artist on the boardwalk who has PTSD and his reaction to the crowds and fireworks.

Feed the Piranhas

let poetry die

yesterday I wanted

poetry to die

 

today I write

what’s beyond my mind

 

the lord’s my shepherd

there’s nothing alive

 

I’m a lamb

who wants

 

the nothing’s my guide

when everything’s consumed

 

practice a ritual

unknown but shown

 

tomorrow I’ll find

what I need to survive

 

the lord is my gift

given to me by nothing

 

I crave an apple

everyday

 

but won’t give in

never give in

 

to the evil within

let poetry die

 

New Jersey

at Ben Franklin bridge’s height

one can see halfway across New Jersey

a land so flat and so green

it almost looks like paradise

and although salvation

lies far beyond this state

it’s good to feel that way

every now and then

to feel at the height

of a bridge to see the scattered

skeletons of Camden skyscrapers

to know beyond are farms and pines

suburban colonies

graphed developments

at first with natural names

Collingswood, Haddonfield, Cherry Hill

then unnatural names, townships

called by the names of colonizers

villages bearing names of lost tribes

exterminated people still roam

the barren pines, while cars collide

on highways stretched over unmarked graves

until finally the Atlantic Ocean arrives

a massive highway itself, littered with bones

of humans in chains, of slaves, of migrants

an inferno of water crushing bodies

centuries in transit

on the way to hell in life

en route to paradise in death

wherever that may be

Open to Submissions

I started a new poetry journal that’s open to submissions.

Outcast Poetry: Open to Submissions

Song of Eire

 
The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

I stand at the cliff
and look across
the wide Atlantic
to see a steel monolith rise.

The depths of the ocean
can no longer conceal
the pain that I carry
in knowing past and future loss.

I sit by the crystal Shannon
and feel the wildflowers
break beneath my weight
to become a bushel of waste.

The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

The lush fields once crossed
by the free Finn McCool
and his band of poet-warriors
have been crushed by machines.

The old woman of Ireland
calls me home to fight for liberty,
but her sons reject me, a mere American,
and I comply to colony life.

I fly back to New York
with a hole in my chest
longing for the identity
of my starving ancestors.

The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.