He told me I wasn’t qualified for anything.
I told him to fuck off.


Going Blind at the Farmers Market

Sitting here overlooking the
vast majority of lip-tucked,
bearded, like-god,
savant syndrome sycophants
under a pale sun
that is hidden beneath
dark blue eyes.

Listening to small talk
I don’t seem to understand–
only the sound of my own skin
tearing and falling apart.
My blood spews on-
from the tip of my tongue
to schizophrenic fingertips
and yet I return
again and again
to the place that makes my heart scurry.

*Published in the upcoming lit magazine, Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Vol. 3, Issue 6, June, 14