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Behold: the terrible
missiles
 
eagerly droning, our bombs
descending like fallen
angels
 
to cave in roofs, rubble homes.
                 

      from "To Cave In" (Cathexis Northwest Press)

From a bird's eye view, nothing's new
to reporters and choppers and hawks,
except when a fire burns maroon
and purple turns screams to shocks.
Listen: the chiming twitters of a dove.
Its tweets reciting the clicks of a gun.
         

      from "About a Massacre" (Touchstones)

The Word
like the body of a snake,
like a series of sown necks
—mine to my father’s,
my father’s to his father’s,
my father’s father’s
to his father’s father’s
all the way back to Adam,
all the way back to the rattle
—slithers out
 

       from "Love Poem: Bitch" (High Shelf Press)

it was made to wear, to be worn
down to its most basic
fringes: sound
and syntax and sex. It is a long.
drawn out discourse
which always,
ominously points to divorce—

       from "Crisis of Faith" (Flare)