It is raining tonight, and the rain in its falling is stirred into a tumult, a chaos of cross-wise winds. More living things than liquid the droplets, adhering as they do in fine fashion to park benches, lamp posts, eyelashes. Enveloping you, dancing above you. It is raining. The mist swirls. It cascades as though…
V.P., Part 5
Because you pedal. Because you glide. Because you’re effortless, you’re easy, and your tan is coming along nicely, young man. At the bottom of the hill over which I hang is a nice grid of suburban streets, the trees, the lawns, the sheds–all that shit. But you no longer belong there, do you, you little monster?…
V.P., Part 4
Because I wear poplin shorts and sandals, the plastic smacking at my skin. My shirt tied up like a ninja mask over my face. Revolutions of the pedals, the turning of the gears; moving forward I return to where I start. I have to think like this, like a metronome in my mind, because otherwise he’ll…
V.P., Part 3
Because you want to be like John Smith. Why? The guy’s a twit. A raging narcissist. An impulsive, irreverent heretic, one who– and all he’d have to do, if we’re being honest here, all he’d really have to do if he wanted to get back on our good side would be to pay a little…
V.P., Part 2
Because I’m the Boy and I pedal, the chrome and the rubber and the steel. I spread viscous stuff on her each morning as blinking I wheel my girl out from the shed. Where we live up in Maine I can lean her up against the front of a business, no problem, and always she’s…
V.P., Part 1
The Moon is talking down to the Boy this time, he says: Pedal your bike, Boy. He says: We watch you while you sleep. He goes: It’s me, Demos, Phobos, the hands under your bed; we know you’re tempted to tell your mom about us, but you better not. Just don’t. Trust me. You won’t…
Ashes
KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KI— He fucks whores. He cranks out push ups. He jogs in the morning past shuttered shops and locked gates and snarling dogs straining…
Woof
When I’m up in Maine I like to ride my bicycle late at night. Should ever you bear witness to one of these events you’ll see for yourself my midnight transformation–how this man melds with his machine, the chrome and the rubber and the swim-trunks. Be sure to watch for the faintest bit of light,…
Cuban Coffee Confessions
Once a month he’s up on the stage, poetry, where under the guise of the art he uncovers his crimes. In the dark of the cafe the crowd listens to the man on the spot, as shedding light on his kills he recounts: “She cried.” Spoken softly, the package safely back at home, the Saturday…
Moonman Inbound, Final Part
The Moonman pushes himself off the side of the house, running to the patio and then vaulting up over the steps, belly shaking with the impact. He tears past the sliding glass doors, goes through the darkened kitchen by way of memory and the touch of out-stretched arms, pushing off of furniture and walls until…
Moonman Inbound, Part 10
The Moonman goes into a crouch, just a shadow picking its way with feeling steps through the grass. He stops at the edge of the house. He peeks around the corner, his back up against the vinyl siding, some of the day’s heat still radiating into his dirt-covered skin. Down the little grass lane on…
