“Prospect Zoo”

It is raining and there is a phoenix on the street corner selling tickets

To a show no one will ever see his red plumage scattered at his feet

While his neighbor the hound avoids his own tawny complexion in

The mirror a group of ibex run past with branches cradled over their

Heads startling twenty-three conspiracy pigeons and one assassin cat 

The badger behind the wheel of an expensive beetle with silver horns

Locked together with a short orange giraffe suffering from a mad god

Complex she won’t ever make the front page run by some sort of scarab

Cult and their fascination with spiders and their snatched snip politics

Printed off the hides of the pups who lived in that alley once upon a time

It is raining and there is a peacock carrying too many feathers in her arms

To the office where she is devoured by asking blue eyes and unwanted

Claws in another block a fox slipping an emerald into her coat pocket

She’ll sell it to that jackrabbit the white one covered in gold body glitter

Living above a deli with druggie bluegills and their grey water cameras 

The lonely black bull sitting on that empty stoop he kissed his best friend

There once upon a time but he’s dead now like the old sloth too slow for

Change who was gobbled up by that tricky adder in the city’s basement

While the weasels stood on their hind legs and watched with petty grins

As a sparrow pushed a stroller past a group of smoking leather stallions

It is raining and the flamingos go to school with their ballet shoes they all

Look the same at least in a cluster the neon panther hurrying them along

While a raven flies overhead her talons filled with love notes from her

Lover a pretty quetzal more queer than she is cousins with the lion who

Rents downtown in a flat made of skin and stolen yellow beehives.

“A Different Kind of Light”

His heart aches,

she’s losing her feathers.

A peacock,


and green.

Her wing is broken.

The sun tries to help,

the moon gets in the way.

They can’t be together.

She’s missing her crutches,

made of someone else’s collarbone.

There’s a ring on his finger.

He won’t sleep tonight,

all those blinding lights,


in his head.

“A Match Made in Blue”

Dreams are vain, vile creatures,

blind to everything that is not of their own making.

Strutting around, piled high with foolish nonsense and glittering promises.

But we love them anyway.

Orphaned from birth, they spend their lives searching for someone to nurture them.

We just so happen to be equipped for the job.

We ourselves are born with holes in our hearts and ghosts in our heads.

We as a species, are naturals at brave and blind perseverance.

So who is better to dream?

We don’t have much of a choice in the matter, it is what we were born to do.

We are also orphans, in a way.

Created out of sand,

so they say.

A grainy mannequin,

in the image of what we “should” be.

Fuck that.

I’d rather just dream.