Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
Machine Dropped the goddamn wrench again. Scraped my knuckle a third time. The grease and grime sting as the engine’s heat lashes my cheeks. Can’t afford a mechanic, so I become my own for a car I can barely afford Continue reading Machine & Swallowed by Michael Griffith
Week Blood and host Sunday Blow off Mom Monday Too much to Tuesday Bluetooth work Wednesday Three drink lunch Thursday Blowjob friend Friday Blurred-together Saturday Bloody lost Sunday Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit become Continue reading Week by Michael Griffith
My mother still cries My mother still cries Cries still over my leaving and not growing up to be more like she’d hoped Still over my sister’s free spirit never tamed despite lessons and lessons and lessons more Cries after Continue reading My mother still cries by Michael Griffith
He Took a Drag of the City Smoke drips off his cigarette as he tries to decide which way to walk. He decides instead to take a long drag. Smoke scampers down into his lungs where it hopes it will Continue reading He Took a Drag of the City by Michael Griffith
Her eyes own me Her eyes own me that small smile ignites me even the way she sits excites me one hand held up as if a scepter or wand kept those fingers busy busy as I wanted them to Continue reading Her eyes own me by Michael Griffith