Prose Before Hoes

All the mom-sters tried to

lure me into their

suburban web, with

steaming lattes and

comfy pants.

Yet, they whisper,

I have the gall to

walk away. An

artistic Rumspringa,

where the stories

of my life remind

me of those languid

days we spent by

the beach, combing

my fingers in the sand,

and squinting at the sun.

The waves lapping

like our hearts beating

in the heat.

There’s just no time

for the unjust coaching

in so-and-so’s

gymnastics or how

we wish he’d pick

up his dirty socks.

I’m simply busy

bleeding those stories,


after night,

onto this page.



this week has been the

ten plagues. Except locusts,

thank god.

Even the animals

are petulant.

And right now I’m

hoping, if I take

my blood and tears,

and display them


then somehow I’ll

be spared this

agony, and sent

instead with those

who have roamed

the desert of

obligation and

normalcy for

these next

forty years.






As she lay dying

I understand

that I can’t be

the reason she lives for.

She has to fight through

this on her own,

finding her own reason

to keep those old hands working,

that weary heart to beating.

And I, too, must search

now, to find my reason

to be here.

One that doesn’t include

spending my life

seeking her love,