A home for my outliers, those poems that just didn’t seem to fit in anywhere else. Perhaps that no one else could love. This page is their home.



Some poems don’t have a home.
They loiter among polished
shoes or else sleep off
rejection in a threshold.
Poems that just won’t say
what you want them to say.


I cross to the other side
but still hear the stench of them.
It presses into me like cabbage.

Pass a law, an ordinance – please
don’t feed the homeless. Set
spiked pillars under
the overpass. They must
not gather bones
in such plain view.

Should they give you any
trouble, throw this bag
over their heads.
They’re like parakeets, you know.
They’ll fold in their wings
and sleep, thinking
the sun has gone.

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