Oh No, Mr. Bill!

They dangle there,
Mr. Bill and his pink companion,
waiting to be chosen,
which is to say, waiting to be destroyed.

Cultural relic, TV clown, doomed icon,
built for suffering, sold for laughs,
still grinning like he doesn’t know
what always comes next.

Beside him, the pink beast,
a parody of menace,
its grin as empty
as the hands that will discard it.

Soon enough,
some grinning dog will take them,
shake them, shred them,
find the hidden squeaker
and silence it for good.

And that will be that.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

the bear is starving

but still massive

still full of teeth

still ready to tear something apart.

the ice drips off its back

like a bad joke,

melting down into the graffiti,

into the tags no one will remember.

somewhere, a man in a suit

counts money,

while the sky burns itself out

and the water keeps rising.

you can scream about it,

write a poem, paint a wall—

but the bear is still starving

while the world plays dead.

Miami Beach, Florida

Vogue Cleaners, 10 PM

The neon flickers,

hums like it’s thinking about dying.

Inside, rows of forgotten lives
hang stiff and silent,

waiting for owners
who aren’t coming back.

A wedding dress, its veil untouched,

waits as if time might change its mind.

Beside it, a funeral suit,
still stiff 
with a grief long spent.
A stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin, 
listens for the voice of its missing kid-

A priest’s robe with a flask

tucked in the folds,
a scarf still reeking of cheap perfume,
a tuxedo waiting for a night that has passed,
a silk dress with a bullet hole.

In their pockets
a phone number, a pressed flower,
a lottery ticket never checked,
a note unread,
an unopened pack of gum—

small, unspoken losses

filed neatly among the starch and steam.

Nobody asks questions

at the cleaners - 
some stories don’t get endings,

just receipts nobody claims-
the winter coat in summer,

the summer dress in winter.

Outside, the breeze shifts the weeds
against the curb - 
the last sweater never claimed.
No name, no tag,
just the weight of something once needed,
folded into the dark.


New Smryna Beach, Florida

Peaks Island, Maine

DADDY IS COLD

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.
Who would dare suppose such a thing?

The twitching id of perpetual need,

a litany of denials—

life itself, a fragile compassion.

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.
Who would dare suppose such a thing?

The twitching id, hungry, restless,

denying itself, devouring itself.
Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.


A litany of denials—

a shivering need—

life itself, an unanswered call.
A litany of denials.

Who would dare suppose such a thing?

Life itself—

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Of all the things in this store—

packs of art supplies, joke collections,

a ceramic dish shaped like an alligator—

the kid chooses this.
A plastic possum, mid-smile, stuffed in a peanut,
wheels tucked beneath its shell,

a promise printed on the box:

Pull them back… Watch them go!

The kid grabs it off the shelf,

laughing like it’s the best thing in the world—
he holds it up to his dad, eyes full of wonder.

“Watch it go!” he says,

and with a flick of his hand,

the tiny wheels stutter across the counter.

I imagine a designer somewhere,

drafting the blueprint for this absurdity,

testing prototypes in a quiet room,

wondering if the world really needs it.

But the kid tugs at his dad’s sleeve,

laughing as the possum shudders forward.

And in this moment, yes,

the world needs exactly this.

Deland, Florida

Somebody sat here once.
Drank a beer, maybe.
Watched the waves do
what they’ve always done.

Now it’s just a chair,
tilted, half-stuck in the sand.
The ocean moves on.
The wind keeps blowing.

No big revelations.
No meaning to dig up.
Just the tide coming in,
the tide going out.

And if nobody comes back,
the chair will stay
until the sea takes it,
or someone else sits down.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

The road pauses here, a breath held too long,
where the past drifts in like the smell of grease,
clings to the walls, the cracked vinyl seats,
ice melting in cheap whiskey, untouched.

The door wails like a lost chord in the night,
a bluesman’s lament bending in the wind.
Men with faraway eyes sit without speaking,
watching the clock melt minute by minute.

Memory flickers in the fluorescent hum,
faces blurred, half-formed, unfinished dreams.
A hand idly traces the bar’s old scars,
as if feeling for the line between what was and what could have been.

Outside, the wind rises, turns in on itself,
a thought abandoned before it was spoken,
a traveler passing through the dark,
caught between staying and vanishing.

Jackman, Maine

the sheets hang like tired ghosts,
draped over the line, sagging, waiting.
I watch them move, slow, lazy,
like they know something I don’t.

the sun beats down,
soap and sweat mix in the air.
I take a breath, deep and steady,
the wind hums something almost holy.

maybe this is enlightenment—
pinning up the mundane,
watching it sway,
waiting for something to rise.

but then the wind picks up,
a shirt flies off the line,
lands in the dirt,
so much for transcendence.

Colombo, Sri Lanka

sunlight kisses plastic skin,
lips frozen mid-thought—
but no thoughts ever come.

she leans into the world like she owns it,
but she owns nothing, not even herself.

shadows curl against the woolen weave,
a careless shrug stitched in fabric and pose.

too cool to notice, too empty to try,
just another hollow queen of display.

white-rimmed eyes, frozen in mid-glance,
survey the world with practiced boredom.

behind the glass, people move with purpose—
she holds none, and wears it well.

yet someone will stop and stare,
searching for meaning in her vacant grace.

and when night creeps in, she stays,
same pose, same stare, same nothing.

Portland, Maine