Tap, tap, tap, their little fingers fly — Their heads are dead I said. Poor babies, too much phone. Eyes glassy, lips sassy, butts gassy. Necks bent like old flamingos. So young, looking so damn old. Imagination murdered by the hour. Turn it off please, you can’t breathe. No they scream, my phone is life. Bedroom lights on at 2:00 a.m. Tap, tap, tap, their little fingers…

Death is the constant impetus to get on with life — The beauty of life is certainty of death. I don’t fear death, I fear being alive… yet not living. I am terrified of wasting minutes that are mine, the hours of this gift counting away towards nothingness, no one knowing how close to the end. Death is the constant impetus…

Where you are is where you are not — Your body sits, your mind leaves. Your lips engage, your eyes wander. The scent of hot summer comes on a breeze, but your head left an hour ago. Where you are is where you are not. Your feet carry you along. Heat waves shimmering on the sidewalk. Car upon car pack…

Memories of a man I wished dead — A wet leaf, driven by coming rain, a childhood memory when I was seventeen… buzz cut, dark blue cheap jeans, big white cuffs, almost a man, still so much a child. My mom, barely five feet tall, me already looking down at her. My stepfather, gone a month, stopped to pick up…