“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.

“Through My Fingers”

Close it.

The door,

the one with the crystal knob.

You shouldn’t watch this part.

Your sister,

mother,

lover,

brushing their teeth with red paste.

A thighbone,

cracked in two:

a jewelry box.

The ballerina who broke her legs,

lying in the bathtub,

her bun undone.

The curtains are yellow,

and your wrists are pink,

pressed against the glass.

Make a wish.

“A Notorious Headache”

Loneliness of your own making,

your eyes are open,

and you find yourself in grips with it.

This fucking venom,

chronic and life-giving,

killing my ability to react.

Reflective, terrible,

it sits inside my chest,

and rests against my pulse.

Sometimes I can’t speak.

But I can see.

I can see the leaves,

and the way the sun dotes on them.

It’s beautiful and has its uses.

But it hurts.

Because I’m alone,

by choice, though.

Right?

“Death to All”

Bones groaning and creaking, the elegant skeletons danced.

They were dressed in a delicate array of snow, with hollow stars winking from their throats.

Wind flowed through their limbs, a song written in a language long forgotten.

The skeletons’ arms stretched towards the dark sky, praying to some unforeseen goddess that lived above them.

So immersed were they,

these skeletons of old,

that they did not hear the screams.

The silent cries of their neighbors as serrated steel penetrated their skin and ripped away at their insides.

Until it was happening to all of them.