Monthly Archives: January 2016


When you go to strike me

with your nine-year-old hand

after I tell you to take a break on the bench

because you’re not playing appropriately with another, younger autistic boy

I always expect to feel anger

But I don’t

and I wonder how you did that

to/for me

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I don’t like it here

Free time doesn’t interest me

I’d rather not stop here

I will choke on the stillness of this middle of nowhere lake

do you know that about me?

it will steal my purpose

trade it for this introspection I have no use for

I am a runner

In the longest race

I never stop

to do so

It’s like waving to death, no?




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Noodling poem

The radio traded places with the GPS.

we were wherever the Mountain Goats felt like taking us

the GPS lady read poetry

by Yusef Komenyakaa

the  windshield wipers carved chunks out of the night

nothing was doing its job

our mouths made trumpet noises

whenever we attempted speech

in the Ford Escape

You turned in long sonic passages

which I punctuated with sad, drawn out notes that took all of my breath

we spoke actual words with actual saxophones

they had supplied us

It was all going to take some getting used to.










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