Discounted Poetry

My father Sat me on the fading vinyl-covered stool His grandfather sat him upon And placed the order exactly the same As then, Lime sherbet, The impermanence of objects  - Like a vector hallway -  Only outlines green Yet possibly sweet. Her grin entices, Tempting, Promising nothing But a moment's sugar tang On top the tongue. The seat beside me At the soda fountain countertop Is always empty. - 4/22/26

We bow before The polished mirror, But it never speaks. It never says a word We need And we are thirsty. Stars are forming Beyond the night, In galaxies we can't imagine. By the time we see their light, They're dead. - 4/21/26

The sun has pinned the sky Against the hottest unforgiving heavens, Bluest butterfly Now fallen out the jar. I see you clearer now Than we can ever see ourselves. I read your life by braille. The ocean only earns its reputation for awe In thoughts beneath the recovering moon. The sweeter air Is creeping quietly Across the morning mountain trail. - 4/20/26

The honeycomb, A hanging mess Delicious. Scrape it Bare. She's still not sure. The buzzing is surprisingly Entrancing, Ensnaring. If you choose to flee, Escape Will not Be painless. - 4/11/26

He floated to the surface, Top of the manosphere cesspool, And with his gelled-up hair and racist tattoo, He is taking her from you. He offers you a bourbon, Smirking, "Me, I never touch the stuff now," As he takes a quiet sip. In minutes, He will challenge you to pushups After interrupting questions and criticisms. She is hanging on his arm Beneath the AR-15 ink. He muses, "Who'd have thought... They kicked me out, And now I'm back to rule With lists of names, Girls, Minorities. You bleeding hearts, You think a peace is possible Without a final ending, When enemies are still alive," He sneers, And still, I cannot understand Whatever she is seeing, Leaving for this little boy, The tiny fake pretending, Heading for a gossip column And a vicious entry In history books. She'll regret, Deny it all one day Escaping to her next mistake. - 4/16/26

The rising sun's a waking baby Startled fresh. I didn't slant the blinds. The room is slathered butterscotch. I see her fired face, Her hair a darkened statement on the pillow, But asleep, awake, I am unsure if she's a hopeful dream Or melancholic echo Yesterday, tomorrow. Shut the shades And brew the coffee. Either way, She's phantom flesh, Desire disconnected, Running lost and wild, Forfeited home. What did you expect to find Beside you In the morning? - 4/15/26