Address to an Infant in a Stranger’s Baby Carriage

(My latest piece to be submitted to, and rejected by, McSweeney’s. Live long, and keep writing.)

Our connection seems faint, an imperceptible nod from a passerby at some un-appointed hour. Does it not? What is this, do I know you?

Yet, here we are breathing the same air. You’re a lot like me, I bet. Stubborn and given to brash episodes of furious ingratitude, consumed by a facile self-obsession, a rancorous preoccupation with feeding and napping and all of it punctuated with a factory-like production of pant soiling emergencies. Don’t I know it. Continue reading “Address to an Infant in a Stranger’s Baby Carriage”



you flat-lined in a speckless green room
long nursing that saline bit of light

departing all, the tactics, ploys
the body that you thought was you

with all its hopes and needs and joys
has up and gone, it slipped away

so now you search for haunts anew
nowhere to go, no way to stay

the heartbeat line is flat, a bow
to fleeting breath, and hope’s decay

they note the time of death as now
and exeunt all, give o’er the play

Plea Bargain

Q. What do you call an opioid epidemic in a white neighborhood?
A. Opioid epidemic.

Q. What do you call an opioid epidemic in a black neighborhood?
A. Crime wave.

Q. What’s the difference between a pharmaceutical company and a drug cartel?
A. I give up, what.

Q. What is the purpose of the law?
A. To protect people who have stuff from people who don’t.

Q. What do you call a white man with an assault rifle?
A. Open carry advocate.

Q. What do you call black boy with a squirt gun?
A. Officer involved shooting.

Q. What do you call a rapist who runs for president?
A. Mr. President.

Q. What do you make of this fucking country anymore?
A. Fuck me, IDK.


a truly original work
would not be recognized as art
and language cannot begin to function
without tapping the manifold intents
of its every instance
from the first lowbrow grunt
to the last ephemeral buzzword
creation implies something springing from nothing
a nonstarter, a hat trick beyond
the scope of even a heavenly godcraft

The stupider it looks, the more important it probably is.
—J. R. “Bob” Dobbs

That Fucking Moon

refracted in the moondust
saucer round, the light
it comes our way, obey
her, cyclic lunatic
the hounds and wolves
have paced all day
come out, come out
come out and play
but soft what light the
tidepull on your hunger
and your wolven groin
she’s close enough to fuck
with tides and passions
nerves and hormones, luck
to man and beast alike on
land or sea or airborne tern
that fucking moon
we never learn

In honor of this evening’s full moon. Get
out there and sing to her then, shall we?
PgR 10/15/2016